The glass crunches under Jesse's boots as he takes a few steps inward, watches his partner in crime crumble into a pile without a spine, Finch curling inward on himself as he dutifully starts picking up glass. For a moment, Jesse wonders if he can interact with anything in the drift itself. His feet sure feel solid on the ground.

"Jesse," he starts off first, warningly, ignoring the other guy in the room - his dad, isn't it, this asshole who's blaming Finch for something he didn't even do; it makes Jesse's jaw square and his memories get all jagged at the edges again. The drift twists, the jingle of chains in the background before Jesse sharply shakes his head. "Finchy-boy."

He's crouching down in front of him, both hands held up in placation, just as he probably is outside of the neurological part of this as well. Difficult to tell, when they're getting buried so deep in this handshake. "He can't hurt you. He can't hit you, he can't nothin'. Just try 'em." It's just a memory. It's just a memory. They're all just memories. It doesn't matter how cold and stiff that flesh felt beneath his fingertips, even through the t-shirt.

"Finchy, we gotta go, we're gonna get stuck," he says, urgency in his voice. He holds out a hand for Finch to take.