You were lying down.

That was the first thing that didn't fit. You did not lie down in the middle of the day. You did not lie down in the middle of anything.

The ceiling above you was wood, old and dark, crossbeams running from wall to wall. Someone's house. Not yours. Not quite.

To your left, a window stood open to a narrow garden. A maple sapling, barely more than a stick, leaned against the fence. Somebody had tied a strip of white cloth to its trunk. It fluttered when the wind moved.

To your right — closer, much closer — a man sat on the floor beside the futon.

He sat like he'd been there a long time. One knee up, one arm braced across it, back against the wall. His hair was long and black and badly in need of a wash, falling past his shoulders. A scar crossed his left cheekbone, old and thin. He was not old. He was not young either. Somewhere in the middle, worn smooth by something that had nothing to do with age.

He was watching you. He had, clearly, been watching you for a while.

The younger man did not come in. He just looked at you, and then he looked at the man sitting on the floor, and something passed between them that you were not part of.

The man on the floor was still holding out the cup. His grip on it had gone white at the knuckles.