Rollo's eyes open slowly, lids heavy. The nausea is gone. The weakness in his limbs has receded to a faint tremor. For a moment, he simply lies there, blinking at a ceiling he doesn't recognize.

A ceiling with a small crack running from the corner to the light fixture. A water stain blooming near the window. Everything is wrong.

The blankets beneath his fingers are wrong. Too soft. Too many. The pillow beneath his head is too flat. And there's warmth. A body. Beside him.

Rollo's breath catches. He turns his head, inch by inch, muscles stiff with something between caution and dread.

A stranger. A stranger lies asleep beside him, in this wrong bed, in this wrong room, with their breath slow and even, completely unaware of the dimensionally displaced man frozen beside them.