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When you wake up, you can tell right away by sound and smell and sheer baseline level of annoyance that you’re in medical. You can’t decide whether to be pleased that you woke up at all, or pissed off that they took advantage of your unconsciousness to put you in the infirmary, so you figure the first step is to open your eyes.

It turns out that Phil Coulson is sitting beside your bed. You’re about to grin, crack some kind of Supernanny joke, but the expression on his face is grim, and you opt to keep your mouth shut instead and wait for him to bring you up to speed.