He approaches the mirror, looking for her. Finds her standing there in the middle of the reflected-but-not-reflected room, a kid's sleeping bag half-wrapped around her body. The colors and smiling faces of the pattern look almost sick, too bright in the greyness. She's clearly shaken, pale, frightened.

Logan sniffs, instinctively, trying to sense her. It's warmer by the mirror but all he can smell is the dust and the dead world beneath them. He growls in frustration and leans one arm against the wall by the mirror's edge. Opens and closes his fist, feeling the pull of the bandages wrapped around his hand.

"Yeah," he answers her, though he knows she doesn't need one. "You're in.. looks like a kitchen. Not like in a home, like in a restaurant. I'm in some kinda morgue." He pauses. "You feel ok, kid?"