"My condolences. Perhaps you can tell me of it some time over a drink." She is old enough to drink, isn't she?

"I'm holding on." His grip is definitely tight enough to be called a "death grip." And he's holding his breath too as he is pulled up and through, wide-eyed, still barely able to believe it's really happening on some level.

Once the very last of him is out, he finally lets the air from his chest in a huff of relief. He's intact. Not even a hair out of place.

"Well done. I'm sorry I doubted you."