"What can I say? I'm good." It's a slow exhale, a promise of relief, however mild— eyes drifting shut after a beat. She's getting too old for this level of high-risk low-reward bullshit, but if she tells herself it won't be for much longer, it doesn't really matter.

To the doctor comment, she says nothing. Lets him work for a few beats in silence as he finishes up and her mind goes equally as numb as the wounds at her side beneath those bandages. And then, without fanfare or inflection— quiet as the din of the life support systems around them— she adds:

"Thanks, Jack."