He really doesn't know. Adjust sounds ridiculous, because there's no way his mind can adjust to all the things Emily's told him, to the realisation that he's further behind than any of them. His body and clothes only bear the wear of being dropped into the Colosseum with those tonberries, not the marks of whatever Sam's been through in the time that - he's guessing - separates them.

His hand runs across his head, through the short curls there, and he ventures that question.

"Sam. Uh, what time was it for you? When you- like, got here?"