The height of the man, and the hieght of the bed, and last of all the height of Yuna, all factor together to require her to tilt up on the toes of her chunky hiking boots to get a full-body scan of the sleeping man through the lens of her staff.

She tries to be as quiet as she can, as the red and blue lights play on her face once again, but the posture is awkward and she is, perhaps, ill at ease, surrounded by the full might of a machina society, all bent on preserving one life.

There's a bell that hangs by a thin cord from the end of her staff; it jingles, clear and sweet among the beeps and gusts.