There was a brief rebounding of Quinn’s panic, a surprise that it was there, then a scramble to soothe it. A thin sense of ease simmered within her only momentarily, before the ache and the nausea tainted it. That invisible hand within her recoiled, and she could practically [i]feel[/i] [color=black]her[/color] sink away, twisting uncomfortably with the new, awful sensations. 

So, Quinn lay alone in the dark for a time. A bit odd, it was rare these days that no one came running at her cry. But the dorm wasn’t empty—she could hear sounds from the kitchen, vague activity, a single set of footsteps. It was many more minutes until, finally, the sliver of light from the cracked door widened, and a shadow stepped into the room. 

“[color=gray]Hey, hun,[/color]” Besca’s voice was soft, quiet, a breath soaking the fabric by Quinn’s ear. Her footsteps were silent, not even her clothes rustled. A hand touched her gently over the sheets, pulled them back. “[color=gray]Don’t worry, you’re alright. You’ve just got a little hangover from drinking so much. Happens to almost everyone. Here—[/color]” 

Besca held something close to her face. It smelled sweet, like apples, and in the faint light she could see it was a glass with a long straw poking up from it. 

“[color=gray]Drink some juice, it’ll help. Little sips, c’mon. I brought some medicine too,[/color]” she set a tiny, plastic cup on the bedside table with what couldn’t have been more than a tablespoon of bright, cherry-colored liquid inside. “[color=gray]You don’t have to take it if you don’t want to, but it’s safe, I promise, and it’ll take the edge off that headache.[/color]”