It's just glass. She's good with glass. Glass statues, anyway. Vases. Glasses. A window shouldn't be to hard, and she'd been careful. She doesn't say that. He knows. I can fix it, she says silently, managing a tiny pointed scowl at him around the not-quite-set-in panic.

See, Finnick, she's fine.

Completely.

Utterly.

Fine.

"Okay," she hiccups. "Okay. Finnick. Whe-where's here?"

Facts. Information. A plan. Things she can hang onto, so she can do something.