When the kid turned, Indy saw the damage wasn't limited to those bruises on his arm. Maybe he'd run into Dent's friend. Still, it looked like he'd been lucky by this place's standards--at least he was better off than Pilgrim had been the other morning.

Obviously Indy'd interrupted his train of thought; the boy lapsed into a dazed silence almost as soon as he opened his mouth. When he started talking again, the accent was impossible to miss. Another German. That made four of them, thought Indy, who was still looking for common denominators among the patients: Lunge, Franziska von Karma and her father, and this kid. Come to think of it, he'd run across someone else with a thick German accent recently; who had it been? The unanswered question nagged at the back of Indy's mind.

"It's fine," he said, waving off the apology. "Staying in probably wasn't a bad idea. The last thing you want is to compound an eye like that by getting hit again." Not that that would've kept Indy in if the black eye had been his, but it was the kind of sage advice he kept feeling responsible for giving these kids. Some adult had to do more than chase them around with syringes, at any rate.