The gun was already pressed against the lower edge of his jaw, metal too hot to go without searing and leaving a red imprint there, when he heard his name. There was no sudden flooding realization, but in its place, his stomach twisted violently, nausea coming and going in waves as he turned around to face her again. The red on the walls faded. Her face grew more distinct. But all the while, that gun was still pressed to the line of his jaw, still ready to fire at a moment's notice, because anything had to be better than how he was feeling right then.

"Why are you here?" he asked, swallowing thickly. James was the small child who had retreated safely under his parents' bed when instructed, who hadn't lifted a single finger to help, because he was only so young. Sawyer wasn't sure he was James anymore, and he certainly didn't feel it then. "You're not supposed to be here, Helen."