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Though Mahler tried to pass it off as just another bit of coughing, Laurel didn't stand for it. She had gotten used to his coughs, and honestly she didn't think too much of them; it was a part of who he was. Yet to see him this way, weak, blood on the ground and his mouth, it was not a part of the picture that she had of him. Doesn't look like the old cough, she said, her eyes trailing over the blood with a shocked expression.

When he tried to bend the conversation towards Abel, Laurel said, perhaps a little too harshly, Fuck Abel! Laurel wasn't very good at showing her care, but it was clear in that moment that she was worried, and it wasn't about Abel. Let's get you somewhere you can rest first. And then tell me what's going on with you, Mahler. This doesn't look right. Laurel nosed Mahler's side and she gestured for him to follow. There was a shallow den nearby that they could use, she knew, where he could lay down on a soft and dry bed of moss at least.