“I’d better run that to the kitchen,” says Sanctuary. “I won’t be long.”

Goma sits on the couch by the window, a hand pressing against her forehead. After that brief interaction, it seems that a headache has caught up after… whatever strange blackout she’d just experienced. 

Sanctuary hesitates at the door. “...You alright?” His concern serves only to annoy her. “Hey, there’s a cistern outside if you wanted to… y’know… wash some of the funk off…”

“Got it,” an undeniably filthy Goma snaps back at him.

The door shuts behind him. Goma watches as he trots off to the farmhouse, bushel in hand.