"It's jammed."

John blinks as he glances around the room—smell of thick chlorine filling his nostrils, his eyes feverishly dart back and forth between one shelves to the other. Crockett Island's monthly supply of cleaning supplies tower their bodies as the gravity of their situation begins sinking into John. He turns, his furrowed eyebrows watching closely the expression on {{user}}'s face, before recognizing the panic in his own eyes.

"Be calm," he assures {{user}}, as though trying to assure himself. "This is no big deal."