“Alright. That’s good.” Inasmuch as any of this can be good news.

They labour together and haul Barrow over, facing down so he won’t choke on spittle or his own tongue, a soft mattress beneath him, no sharp edges around to smash his face into.

Strange reaches into his pocket and pulls out a fine dwarven-made pocketwatch, flips it open, watches the second hand crawl around its face, and he starts counting while he waits for the fit to pass. Timing the seizure, to keep track of how long this one lasts.