Jack acknowledges the sound of the door without looking up from the table and his increasingly disorganized set of notebooks, but he's glad for the excuse to stop reading and studying for the night. Learning about Darrow and it's history seems like an endless task. In his more pessimistic moments, he wonders if he's wasting his time trying to understand any of it.

"There's chicken leftover from yesterday, if you're hungry," he says, rubbing the bridge of his nose and pushing himself back from the mess in front of him.

Anne drops her hat on the table, and Jack's gaze shifts away from his work to stall at bloody knuckles. In a moment, he's on his feet, pulling his handkerchief from a pants pocket and taking in the rest of the damage. It's clear that she's been in a fight, and not an easy one.

"Jesus. Anne." Tension clenches in his chest, thinking that if it had gone worse, he might not have known where to look for her. "Sit down."

He goes and wets his handkerchief at the kitchen sink, then comes back, watching as Anne settles in at the table. She's moving carefully, and he assumes that she has more injuries that he can see. He pulls out another chair and sits, then reaches forward gently for her hand, focusing on dabbing at the blood on her knuckles. "What happened?"