Her hands feel stupidly useless as she attempts for the third time this meal to hold a fork and knife properly. It's not that she physically can't, it's more that her body can't recall even the simplest of functions without the kickstart of liquor. Her thumb catches on the heavy handle of the knife and it nearly sends peas rolling from her plate, "Sorry, sorry--" She stutters, reaching for her napkin, already preparing to sop up a mess she hasn't even made yet. She will though, she knows she will. Evelyn's been in the Shoreditch rehabilitation centre for eight days and she hasn't made it through a two hour period without an incident since she first stepped through the doors. "Evelyn?" And sure enough, at the sound of her own name, the frail girl jolts and dumps half a glass of apple juice so that it spills like a waterfall onto her own lap, "Sorry, sorry--" She stutters again, shaking her head as the napkin dissolves and sticks to her skin and clothing with the new introduction of excessive moisture, "Sorry--" "Evelyn," the nurse calls again and when Eve lifts her eyes, they've regained that "wild" quality it takes two sessions of therapy to remove, but the nurse stares back, unabashed, "Your turn with the phone, love," and almost instantly the flash of fear and anger and animalistic aggression that once pierced from Evelyn's gaze smooths over and she doesn't seem so out of control. Evelyn looks at the nurse, and she seems sadly unwilling to do much of anything but blink back and forth at the figure stood before her. The nurse nudges a step closer, "I've put the memo book of contacts by the phone-- When you're ready--" The woman offers and Evelyn's already out of her chair. Her weak knees have to work overtime to take her to the small bench beside the phone and it's a miracle she makes it there before she collapses, cradling the phone like it's a newborn child. She's out of breath-- Her lungs expanding and contracting rapidly out of excitement and anxiety and she's flipping through the memo pad, pushing the pad of her finger against her own smudged writing until her thumb falls flat on the small card she's taped to the end of the notebook. It has his name, his number, and the print of his finger in the smudged ink. And just as rushed as he'd been to give her the number, she was equally as hurried to dial it. She pounded in the numbers mercilessly before cupping her hands around the speaker, her own eager pants pushed back into her own face. She closed her eyes as the phone rang, "Pick up, Harry--"