The cool wetness on his forehead is shockingly cold, and he can't figure out what it is, maybe they're cutting open his head and he's bleeding down his face, maybe he's being dunked in the kryptonite tank at Summerholt again. He doesn't know, and can't figure it out, lost in a sea of confusion and terror.

The little touches of April's mind are like tiny raindrops trying to quench a fire, and he can hear the little echoes they leave behind, some part of him recognizing what they are, but he can't respond.