Sleep swings recent on his eyes. A hand to his cheek: Whole, pressed with the red moon-mark of nails.

"Call it practice."

(His neck, the noose; a joke he doesn't bother to complete).

Perhaps it's suggestion that sees him stretch it now. Isaac watches a moment — shakes off the fringe of Fade. A nod to the spare chair. John hardly needs the invitation.

"What did you dream of?"