Another tap on the window, knuckles to glass. This time it's persistent enough for him to look up. A pale face peering through the glaze of the glass, unmistakable. He has to give his head a shake, blink hard, try to dispel the shroud of unreality - but he's still there.

He's supposed to have left. He's supposed to have left. That's what he does. Isn't it?

Tim scrambles upright. The worst that happens is the disappointment at having been proven right - and disappointment he's well used to. The breath hitches in his lungs a heartbeat before he can say it aloud -

"Jay?"