Daniel awoke with a start, disoriented, a little too warm -- damp and sticky without being drenched in sweat. He licked his lips, then swallowed. He wasn't yet awake enough to look for a glass of water.

His dreams had been strange, even frightening at times, and it took a moment for his location to register in his mind. This is not a hotel room; this is not your suite at home. This bed isn't as comfortable. This bed presents nothing close to the comfort you're used to. This bed is a bed in a psychiatric hospital. You don't have anything, not even your privacy.

This is your third morning here.

... Oh, God, he thought, I really must have fucked up this time.

He blinked into the light, trying to recall why he felt a residual sense of panic. It wasn't his situation: that had been sinking in for a few days. The feeling of being pursued came from somewhere else.

In his dreams, he had been in a morgue, somewhere in this hospital. No, that was the last place he had been -- he had looked through files, he had been -- chased? Yes, and his leg had been cut. There had been copious superficial bleeding, more injury than he was used to.

Now, when he looked down at his calf, he had to lift a clean pant leg to see it. It was covered by a bandage and it barely hurt... he couldn't even remember cutting it. He'd probably scraped it on a loose screw somewhere and had been too out of it to notice. No way to tell, now, aside from walking around like an idiot asking everyone if they'd seen him bleeding yesterday, and that was unthinkable: what was left of his dignity still mattered to him, even if L was gone for good.

He rolled out of bed, then sat on the edge of the mattress with his elbows on his knees and his forehead in his hands. His hair flopped forward to cover his face.

The pretty nurse from his first day eventually came by to cajole him to breakfast. He went quietly, taking his journal, and a pen, and asked to make a stop in the men's bathrooms. He stared at his pale face in one of the mirrors as he washed his hands, and looking into his own black-hole eyes, he saw nothing.

On the way to the Sun Room, the nurse commented, "You're subdued today, Daniel, but you seem to be doing better overall since the last time I saw you."

He murmured back to her, "How can you tell?" and was too lost in thought to pay much attention to her answer.

I've played along with everything you told me, because it's what L would do. He wouldn't want to draw attention to himself in a situation where he felt vulnerable and exposed. He would want --

Daniel's sigh was heavy and audible, though there was nothing to show the nurse what might have prompted it. -- It doesn't matter if L is the one who gives my life meaning, if he's also pulling it apart.

When they reached the cafeteria, he was sent through the line on his own, with a suggestion that he try some of the sausage. He took a bit of everything, and less fruit than usual.

Holding his tray in his hands, he scanned the room, and noticed that there was an empty seat next to Howell, who he'd met two days earlier. Harmless, amiable, wanted to help him get out. He'd dreamt about Howell that night, but yesterday, they hadn't managed to talk. Of his acquaintances... Howell was practically the only one with whom he hadn't played the investigator in some way.

He set the food down with care: no noise, no jarring. Pulling back his chair, he put the sole of his shoe on it, as a prelude to crouching on the seat -- but then, he caught the nurse's eye, and her raised brows were sufficiently eloquent to cause him to sit in the chair like anyone else, like his acquaintance across from him.

Once he was seated, he raised his gaze to Howell and said, "Good morning."

His soft voice lacked assurance.