There's a faint ringing in his ears.

"Yeah," Crowley says after a moment, forcing the word up past the tight bands of panic constricting his ribs, his chest, his throat.

He picks up the cartons one after another, identifying them by the semi-legible ballpoint scrawls on the lids. Finding his, he contrives to open it with only moderate fumbling.

Silence.

(He stares blankly at the plastic-sealed chopsticks in his hand.)