Sam watches Albert's hands moving, registering the signs he's making and the words the translate to, but it's like there's a filter over everything keeping him one step removed. Or maybe quicksand is a better metaphor, considering every time he tries to fight it, it feels like it's pulling him back in deeper.

"I can't think."

He'd meant to say it quiet, but it comes out harsher than he'd intended. Talking to Albert is making him try to sort through things in a way hasn't had to before. He has Jet and Clint, and he knows distantly that the only reason he hadn't completely shut off is because of them, but they're not in any better shape than he is. Things drift together when they talk; sometimes he can't remember if he had a conversation or if he only dreamed it, but it doesn't matter. He doesn't have to keep things straight when neither of them really can, either.

But now he does. Now he's trying, fighting to keep himself focused. He knows what Albert's saying is true - they can't change who you are - and he's still clinging so damn hard to that. Holding tight to what makes him Sam, to the best pieces of himself, so the Capitol can't touch them no matter what they do to him.

"I'm not- I don't remember-" Breathe, he needs to breathe. He needs to stop fighting to stay afloat because it's not working, and he's only gonna wear himself out. He's gotta fight smart, not desperate.

"I'm still holding on."