Jack is crouched by the other houdini, the one with a buckshot hole in his stomach. No health kit here either, just a few dollars and a pep bar that's already disappearing down Jack's dried-up throat.

He grunts in assent, pulls the hypo into his hand with telekinesis, and pockets it. At least the burn wounds don't extend all the way onto his palms. But he's not keen on sticking more needles into himself than he has to while his arms look like this.