They had a guide back there. One which she barely read herself, but that didn't stop-- Jess stares into her coffee, gripping it as hard as she can. She's still sort of amazed it doesn't shatter in her fist, a feeling she latches onto to get above the threat of memories. Jess minds her breathing and she minds minding her breathing, and her posture, too static or too twitchy, anything amiss, he's likely to notice. She gulps down more coffee as Kamala rants to her heart's content, though she's tuned out from the exact words. Once she shoves her face into a pillow, Jess assumes Frank will address it or encourage her to wear herself out or do whatever people who are more nurturing than a desert naturally know how to do.