I take Nick's notes and read them. I try to let my mind absorb the fact that what he's saying may very well be true: this is all real, and no one understands any of it. Leaning forward, I press my free hand to my temples and rub. I had thought that the terrible headaches I'd been having were brought on solely by my illness, but it looks like they're at least marginally stress induced, too.

"Thank you," I say, leaning up slightly to turn my face towards Nick so that he has a view of my lips. "I appreciate it, I do." It feels so foreign to have anyone else show even the slightest interest in my well-being, with no mailce or manipulation or disbelief, that I don't entirely know what to do about it.

"This is all a little more supernatural than what I'm used to, where I'm from. Suddenly finding yourself in a completely different dimension is the domain of science fiction movies, or, alternatively, people in dissociative states. This... if this is real... is the realm of the former, then. I don't know how I feel about that."

There seems to be a lot about this place that I'm going to have to accept on faith, and I am a man of very little faith. I suddenly understand how the forensics team must feel when I can say unequivocally how a murder has taken place, and I don't like this feeling of uncertainty.