"That doesn't actually answer the question, Jon," Tim points out. Is it an illusion (miles and hours and the very fabric of reality warping and twisting in tunnels, and people's faces and voices conceived of as something strange and other), or something done chemically? How is it only temporary? Does it hurt?

He looks at the knuckles of the hand he'd punched Jon with, how much lighter the blossoming bruises are than they should be. He doesn't want to think about it.

Tim sips his drink. "Was this a strange month or a bad month?"