Joscelin only manages a nod; he's coughing too much to answer verbally, just now. After a moment he points to Garry's mask and mimes putting it over his own face, as if to ask: do you have another one? All he's got is his own scarf and wool doesn't make a very good filter for particulate matter. Every breath feels like he's being stabbed in the lungs.

"Temple of Vesta," he rasps, once he can trust himself to talk. "My goddess. By the volcano..."