It's at this point that Ford wonders, idly, if he fell asleep at the wheel and this is all some sort of horribly realistic nightmare. If he waits it out, maybe he'll wake up in a ditch somewhere, or with his car wrapped around a telephone pole. He'd almost prefer that to the reality he's facing now, the horrible, nauseating scenario he always feared but never thought he'd actually have to face.

He tries to say something, anything, but his mouth has gone dry. He wets his lips, for what little good that does him, and clears his throat so that his words can get past the constricted airway blocking their path.

"Stanley. Let me see that for a second." It's said gently, a little too calmly, but it's still more of a demand rather than a request.

He moves forward to the side of the car, one hand propped against the doorframe as he leans forward, offering his brother the carton he bought while inside the station.

"Here, drink this while I take a look at it, alright? It should help."

It is not, in fact, a slushie, which should be pretty self-evident because of the fact it's in a carton. While the ice probably would have felt nice in the short term, the sugar wouldn't have done those lacerations any favors. Hopefully milk will be less abrasive.