As time treads on, she grows more and more anxious. Uncertainty begins to mark her waking hours. There's no word from the Shadow Broker on a cure and it's almost been five months now.
She only has six months.
Six months until earth is attacked.
Six months until supplies become limited.
Six months until Chakwas leaves.
It isn't long before one of the doctors offers to prescribe her something for stress, citing the mess of her lower lip as cause for concern. She bites it, nibbles on it, when she feels disconnected. Never hard, she is no fan of pain, but often. Dry lips chap and tear so easily.
It is enough.
And every day makes her visibly more afraid as it passes.