He wasn't that far from the kitchen now, Nate moving faster as he managed to straighten himself out, breathing normalizing.

Only for him to come into earshot of the kitchen and for his breathing to skyrocket again.

He had heard her, that one word echoing out of the door like a slinking swarm of flies. Farefield. Farefield, Farefield, Farefield. It echoes in his skull, bouncing around like a scream off trees.

He was in the doorway before the woman (which one was it there were two - three? couldn't tell vision was tunneling again - and it was impossible to tell who had said what) had finished speaking, staring into the kitchen with a look akin to one a man on death row would have; resigned and cold.

"What," he hissed, voice low and sharp, "do you know about...Farefield?" The word left his lips like sludge; slow and foul tasting. Like a poison.

((I'm sorry to hear you're not having a very good time. I'm glad to hear you're starting to feel better though! And Welcome Back!))