"No," says Tim, because he doesn't. He has no idea where they're headed. His only plan here is: get out. Get away from - the thing that doesn't exist, because It's only ever been a memory, a thought, a bad dream. A shape in the corner of his eyes. A flicker of something that never moves.

"We're getting..." A strain of breath squeezing out from his overtaxed lungs - not broken with a smoker's cough, in this universe, but still far from in peak condition. "...getting out of here. I don't care where we end up."

He used to play a game. Anywhere but here.

It won't save anyone now.