Despite the fear, the memories of the ravenous hunger that continue to haunt every bite, Jim does not rush to devour his meal. He eats slowly and methodically, thoroughly chewing every mouthful like he's afraid it might not go down otherwise, memories of a voice he doesn't recognize telling him he has to eat slow, take it easy, he could die if he eats too much too fast. He's not that starving thirteen-year-old anymore, not a bony little waif with skin stretched too tight over shrunken muscles, but he has the vague impression of running a lot, wasting so much energy again and again when his stomach was already so empty, and he doesn't want to take any chances, at the mercy of old habits that control his every bite.

The smell of baking bread is a soothing one, a smell they never had on Tarsus, not after the crops died. And bit by bit, as he fills his stomach and quiets the hunger, he slowly pulls himself more fully into the present. He isn't okay. But the shock is easing, letting him try to put himself back together, piece by piece, like fitting shards of a broken mirror back together. Splintered, broken, and ugly, full of sharp edges ready to cut careless fingers, but braced together in the frame, in the same shape they used to be.

Even once he reaches the point where he should stop, he continues to eat until the plate is cleared, eating whatever Hunter won't, not even thinking about the possibility of leaving anything behind. Even the apple is eaten down to the stem and seeds, not even the core left. He still feels uncomfortable in his own skin, the discomfort preferable to the nausea and bone-deep pain he'd suffered earlier, and now that there's nothing to do with his hands, he stares down at them, uncertain if he can even meet the eyes of the man next to him.

"It was a werewolf," he says at last, his voice steadier than it's been since returning from the Nightmare.