Jack is sitting on the floor in front of the passenger's side seat, feet dangling down, eating his own stale chips for dinner. He stops at the sight of V and his burns in the light of the shield and the various cars' headlights. His sense of smell hasn't quite come back yet after the intense singing scent of the bombadgay that blew up too close, but he bets he could smell the burned flesh if it had.

So he hops down, holding up both hands, empty. The first aid kit is behind him, between the seats. "You're hurt. Can I help you?"