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He was startled by this and then, an instant later, curiously unmoved: he knew enough to know that what he had just seen was miraculous, but knew too little to have a context in which to feel astonished, in the same that he knew that cats did not normally live in glowing cages and have a shared tail between them, but knew somehow that this was, to him, normal.

He paused, unsure of what to do, gazing stupidly at Stryker's chains and then exercising a thought that was as much muscle memory as smoking had been.

For an instant everything tipped up uneven and Taym was standing motionless next to his desk, a steady hand still suspended in the act of searching (a flicker like sunlight there-and-gone), and then suddenly he went tense and fearful at the flash of--something; something horrible, a gibbering, a wailing, a plea, the rapidfire flash of a deer lying on its side with its eyes rolling and its sides heaving, viscera spilling out of its split belly; a fawn as viewed through a splintered mirror, broken into a dozen pieces; a need to run, run, run--

--he jerked away from--nothing, there was nothing there--with a little noise of alarm and terror, peace returning as firmly as a book might be snapped shut, and he trembled, a little breathless even after just a half a second of exposure.

"I'm not crazy," he repeated violently, obviously, now, trying to convince himself instead of her. He plunged his hand back into the desk drawer, the search turning from discreet hunt to vicious ransack. "I'm not crazy," he repeated, watery and terrified. "I'm--I'm fine, you're--"

A rap on the door interrupted the conversation, a quick two knocks, not too loud but not timid either. The text had interrupted a rather frustrating exercise in drawing plans, and Jordan hadn't been entirely displeased to learn that Thompson had been released and would be in his room. He'd brought the sealed packet, not hurrying, but not taking his time either.

With a small, aggravated sound America was striding to the door. After a moment Jordan would be greeted with a painful smile, "Hey Jordan, what brings you knockin?"

As it turned out, it was Taym that did the interrupting, roughly jostling past America to seize the papers out of her hands.

"Are you Miller?" he demanded, becoming frustrated with the packing tape within a couple of seconds, starting a ginger tear to one side, and then yanking it open with abandon, only to make a frustrated sound at the results before disappearing back inside.

He'd sunk down to sit on the floor--there were two chairs right there, and a bed, and he'd instinctively sat on the floor--and by the time she was asking the question he was furrowing his brow over the three mutilated scraps of the letter he'd written himself and a torn-in-half copy of the self-same pamphlet he and Cami had been forcing into newbie hands for months, skimming over them in order, back and forth, with a sudden intense focus.

It was not a long letter. It did not take him long to read, and he stuffed it into his pocket suddenly, apparently having gotten from it whatever he needed to get. The pamphlet, for now, he disregarded aside from stuffing it into his pocket as well, and he looked up at her like she'd just asked him the question and he'd answered immediately.

"Well--you know," he said uncomfortably. It was occurring to him, for the first horrible time, that maybe she didn't know. That maybe she had no reason to know. The thought was almost unbearable. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. He was already afraid to think again, this time for fear of finding mutilated deer on the other side and wordless, awful wailing.

He tried to bristle but it fell flat, and she got nothing but a quiet sort of panic in return. He had not panicked for his daughter. He had not panicked for her. For this, he ********, I--just don't wanna be sick, you know?" A hollow little laugh, as he heard what he was saying. "Sicker."

He stared at her once again with that gentle, hurt confusion, and for a second it looked like he might be the one bursting into tears this time, the docility gone and replaced with despair, all his simple hopes dashed, his one overriding immediate goal wrecked and leaving him with the chaotic mess of everything else.

"I'm sorry," he said again, pleading. "For not remembering anything. I feel like such an a*****e," he added, and this time, yes, it did sound like he was on the brink of tears.