It says something about their lives that remarks about a giant panda only gets Pidge one (1) sweeping, dark-eyed glance, like Keith's had any medical training aside the obligatory medpro boot camp into which the garrison'd sunk all its pilots. ("If you believe that you are suffering a head injury," their instructor had drawled, and Keith'd instantly drifted back to reviewing a flight diagram on his desktop screen.)

". . . yeah." It's the only thing he can say, slow as it comes, reluctant as it comes. There's a fog where the memory should be -- of a crash, a staggering walk, the Red Lion's eyes like beacons across his shadow. Anything.

This isn't good.

"Do you remember what time it was?"