It's not even the worst he has and he knows it, can feel these other sharp edges of his memories trying to make their way in - he brushes each off, forcefully, one by one, focuses on his compressions even as there's vomit trailing out of the corner of her mouth, that white and glossy look to her eyes.

In the end, it's Finch's voice that yanks him out of it, like he's just remembering where he is, what they're doing. There's some mumble about a few points of stabilization as Jesse leaps up and off the bed as though he's been burned. Or as if, you know, he was just straddling a dead body.

They had to get out of here, and the drift was more than happy to take them, a swirl of blue and more flashes that don't make any sense out of context - an upside down cigarette, the smell of freshly baked apple pie, the heat and a loud, loud bang of a gun being discharged at point blank range, and Jesse's hands grip the levers next to him tightly, white-knuckling as he wraps his head around it.

First drift's the toughest. Both and everything at once. "Focus, I'm focusing," he spits back angrily as he storms his way into the next room, straight into an unfamiliar memory of his own.