Gina slowly moved towards one of the tables and it was only when she knew he would follow that she sat down. It had been years since she ate a real meal, the staff had long ago come to terms with this. Hunger was something that reminded her that she was still here, still living in this world of stark white and black minds. She laid her head down on the table for a moment and let her cheek rest against the cold, smooth, artificial service. It smelled of age and disinfectants which reinforced for her their present location. She turned her head, leaving her chin on the table and looked up at Michael. "Juice box," she whispered quickly and looked about again with a dart of her eyes. She picked up her head slowly and shifted in her straitjacket, scratching an itch.