It's the indication she's calling someone for help that jerks John awake, tears him cruelly away from the dream he's been slipping deeper into -- Dying, Carter whispers in his head, you're not dreaming, John, you're dying. -- and has him reaching for her, for her phone. He's in too much pain and he can't do more than make a few jerking gestures with his good hand before he lies back on the sand and squints up into the sun, at the woman, watching the way her hair shifts lazily in the summer breeze.

This has to be a dream, too.

"No phone calls," he manages to force out, his voice a hoarse croak. If she calls someone, Samaritan will be listening. He doesn't quite believe he's not about to die, but on the off chance he lives through this, whatever it is, he knows Finch won't be very pleased if he blows his cover.

"Just..." He plants his good hand in the warm sand, feeling prickling back into his fingers, then forces himself into a sitting position. His jacket falls open when he moves and there's more blood than he would like, but at least his badge is still pinned to his belt, visible now that he's sitting. "My phone is in my jacket pocket. Can you call Detective Fusco?"