He dreams. He thinks he does. Aware of it, vaguely, in that way someone half-asleep realizes consciousness is on the horizon. The dreams are fragments, familiar voices and half-formed faces punctuated by the wind and a groaning so deep he feels it all the way to his bones. In a lucid moment he's almost sure he sees Howard hovering behind a stranger, a voice saying You can't be here, before true darkness hits.

When the dreaming comes back, it's the wind, interrupted by a steady beep and woosh that gets louder even as the wind fades away. He shivers, and the motion sends little splinters of pain and numbness through every limb. His eyes don't want to open.

Steve coughs, and raises one hand with excruciating slowness to rub his eyes.