"Fred?" Roswell asked uncertainly, finding himself in the throes of another spinning and nonsensical world. The watch he'd gotten was warm in his pocket, but he was reluctant to transverse the dizzy landscapes where butterflies were made of freshly-buttered bread.

It was every bit of nonsense and magical thinking magnified, more solid than a dream, and it made his skin crawl. It was a hallucination, a turn of the mind, and there wasn't an up or a down or anything except the walls of a dread castle.

Gil whickered softly at his shoulder, blowing his bangs out of his face and looking with one gentle eye at the landscape that was scattered with roses.