"Flesh wound." I mean, come on. He's pretty much in one piece. He isn't being eaten alive by parasitical alien bugs. He isn't crushed under concrete and steel. He is almost definitively still male. The world, as far as he can tell, isn't ending. He's had worse.

His mind churns through possibilities. Ring - no. Or try - no. Crawl back to the... not likely. He's left with a choice that is, frankly, a little crass for his taste. But it seems appropriate. I couldn't possibly. Please. "Look, I--" Halfway through the gesture, he realizes he has to reach into his inner breast pocket with the wrong hand. It involves a bit of flapping and twisting of his wrist, but he manages. If he went flat on his back to use his occupied hand, he thinks, he'd never get back up again. "Here."

He brandishes his wallet, a slim, black silhouette. No identification, no credit cards; it's New York, for god's sake, he's not stupid enough to keep those with his cash. "My mobile- my cellphone." He gestures with the bi-fold toward the small table upon which the laptop (and his phone) are set. "I'll call my meteorological colleagues. For your trouble - which I appreciate," he adds, aiming for charming. He tosses the bi-fold in her direction.