Sarah Keene returns to base, her mind replaying the events at Union Station. Over and over and over. She asks if she’s losing herself. She asks if her mortal host, too physically and mentally wracked with pain, is holding her back. She asks if her host’s memories are getting in her way, diluting her judgement. She’s unable, or unwilling, to blame her own self.
When she returns to base, she’s half catatonic. Her responses are robotic and automatic. She hurries to the one place she finds respite. She grabs the bottle from her stash, downs a couple of pills, and the self-blame melts away. Reflection becomes unnecessary. She is content, if nothing else.1