Myitt looks down at Shal, eyes narrowing. "He's no stranger, Shal," she says quietly. "At least, if he is, he's very convincing. Hold on." She walks back into the bar, cradling her bandaged arm, and steps up to the bartender.
"A big mug of water, please. Clean."
The bartender nods imperceptively and fills the mug he had been drying with water from a convoluted series of filters, pipes and glowing globs of wires. It drips into the mug with all the speed of a decrepit coffee pot. Myitt rolls her eyes and waits, impatiently.
In a few moments the mug is full and she takes it from him, rushing to the door. "Thanks," she calls hastily, pushing the door open and hurrying to Shal.
"Here," she says bluntly, handing her the water and helping her sit up a little.