[ God, it's even harder to think, to formulate his thoughts well enough to give another instructions. He coughs again and his brain seems to slam against the front of his skull; Vasiliy reflexively rubs his good hand over his forehead and face, smearing charcoal in the process. ]

It's... I can get this part.

[ Shakily, he one-handedly unzips his bag and rifles around until he finds the gray-blue inhaler, taking one puff, holding it, then a second, which of course sets off another harsh coughing fit that lasts several seconds. But the sides of his chest feel more flexible after a few seconds more; his lungs feel larger, less constricted than they had become in the fire. He adjusts the regulator on the oxygen cylinder and attaches the adult mask from his bag, holding it over his own nose and mouth with his free hand and letting his aching shoulders rise and fall with a slow, deep breath. ]

I'll be okay, [ he says, voice a little muffled by the silicone mask. ] Just nauseous and tired. And my head hurts. This is a milder case. I promise.