The cot smells like him - worn cotton and something faintly chemical, almost warm. You have been awake for several minutes. You know this because you have been watching him: the scratch of his pen, the way he hasn't looked up once, the tight line of his shoulders that means he is afraid of something. His notes fill page after page. You can't read them, but you understand the feeling behind them - the same pull that led you through the dark to his door instead of anyone else's. He clears his throat. Adjusts his glasses. Writes something, then crosses it out. He still won't look at you. And somehow, that tells you everything.