"What would be the right aesthetic?" he asks, finding he wants to know, if only for the sake of hearing something that might distract from the blank confusion of his own thoughts or the uncertainty of his arrival here. He heeds the advice, though, wetting a napkin and wiping at his brow, his cheeks, the angle of his jaw. The white paper comes away dark with grit and dust, and he grimaces, using another.

"I'm Daniel, by the way," he says, though for a moment even that feels wrong. "Daniel Arlington. At least I know that much."