"Three or four times," Jim says, and he lets his attention leave her when she curls into the blanket and the cup. He can tell she's in pain, that she's uncomfortable; he can't fathom what it's like for people with advanced healing. Jim is fairly certain he wouldn't have been able to operate half as good as he did with the stimulants the doctors provided afterward.

He shifts his weight and rubs his chest without thinking about it, where the permanent scar from feeding rests on his sternum. Jim glances sideways to her. "They can give you a stimulant, if you're feeling rough."