Her hands touches the table and Connor’s eyes follow it the entire way. For an absurd second, he thinks she wants to take his hand, but that isn’t it, she’s focusing on the table itself. A perfectly harmless table, but if she’s to be believed there’s something beyond that, which nobody can see because it doesn’t exist. Not here.

It sounds like nonsense. It sounds like something Connor back in Detroit would try to pick through for a metaphorical meaning, or anything he could discern about her psychology from the plainly impossible story she’s weaving. But within the past couple of days he’s had to start to accepting that nothing he knew to be true is fixed anymore. And that goes for things he would assume are false, too.

“And you’ve seen them,” he says quietly. It’s not a question.