If Prior's to make suggestions on what Sam might have lost in the last four years, at least he knows where to start.

"You're a utter wealth of information. Has anyone said so?" he asks, not once allowing himself to be taken in by the perception of a greater knowledge. So far all Sam has done is speak in the same kind of riddles that already characterize Carroll's unstable landscape.

Arms stiff at his side, he clutches his fingers into tight fists and then releases them slowly. It's better than grinding his teeth, but the popping of his knuckles as his hands tighten down on themselves tell tales he doesn't bother answering for. He feels angry. Deceived without a target to lash out against.

"No credit for his inspiration, I see. Unless he just another loony like the rest of us, writing about what he's seen." The way he accents loony, with distaste on his tongue, says a lot for his own credibility on the subject.

It's going to take a while for Billy to accept any of this is more than a dream brought on by psychosis.