"I'm gonna be fine," he says, instinctively, because that's how you respond to a question like that, it's how he's always been taught to respond, and it's what's expected of him, in general. But then he remembers that usually, when Ned asks questions like that, he genuinely wants the answer, so he takes a deep breath and shrugs.

"I'm probably gonna be fine," he amends, "but I don't feel fine right now. I feel sick. I feel like I'm gonna cry. I can't just pretend I didn't see that. But you know I'm not... I mean, I'm fine with you. It's just the rest of it I'm not fine with."

He realizes he's still holding his cup of hot chocolate, which is nearly empty and no longer hot at all, and it strikes him as somehow ridiculous that he's managed to hold onto it for that long, throughout all of this chaos. After a few seconds, he stands up, shoving the styrofoam cup into the closest trashcan, and nodding in the general direction of a payphone.

"Over there, I think. We can call someone. And then we can get out of here," he says, rubbing his hands together, trying to keep them warm. He can't tell whether it's the cold air or the anxiety making him so chilly, but it doesn't really matter, the result's the same.