Goma waits for a beat. Then she springs into action: she opens drawers, trunks, bags, jars, even overturns the mattress. She tears his room apart with no regard of putting things back as they were. It soon becomes clear to her she isn’t going to find what she’s looking for. She quits her search in a fit of rage.
“Damn broke-ass farmer!!!” she shouts.
Taking a breath, she looks down to Sanctuary’s work bench, where the mortar and pestle with the medicine he’d been preparing sits. She takes it with one reluctant hand and raises it to her nose. She sniffs. “...Huh,” she says to herself. It does, indeed, smell nice.