Ford took the slender volume in his hands, but he didn't know what he intended to do with it. He could open the cover and turn the pages, but his eyes couldn't focus on the letters themselves when he was this distracted. Tycho had been having visions and dreams of him. Tycho had been writing him love poetry. Ford had seen the shingles on his rooftop gain color again and had fretted over what it meant, but he never would have imagined what it meant was that Tycho was in love with him again.

"I've been dreaming about you, too," he admitted, practically under his breath. It felt shameful to admit when he was supposed to be focusing on the baby, on Jemima, on rebuilding their relationship and earning her trust, but he couldn't help where his subconscious wandered at night. Though mostly those dreams hadn't been pleasant. Mostly they hinged on the expression on Tycho's face when he'd left Ford's room that night.

"You don't remember anything?" Ford asked. He had opened the book to a random page, but still hadn't made his eyes or his brain focus on the words yet. "You don't remember how you left?"

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