"Not a hospital," River replied, her voice carrying a lightness to it. It was like floating on the wind, drifting off and down a path shrouded in too much mist. "Lights won't work in this much fog..." she mumbled a moment later, though it wasn't directed at John. "Shortcuts need to be avoided. Too much roadkill."

In an instant, she was sharp and alert again, perhaps disturbingly so, as she turned her curious, half-blank, brown eyes back on him. Staring into souls always hurt, always bled bits and fragments and gallons.

"They make believe so you won't see them crawling out from under your bed at night."