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Andrew Davis knows he’s going to die tonight.
He had a good run, all things considered. Lotta kids around here don’t even make it to seventeen. It’s not like he didn’t know the average life expectancy of anybody growing up in Crime Alley, let alone dealing drugs here.
There are plenty of occupational hazards, for a kid like him. There’re the gangs, for one, what with their ever-changing territory lines, and the police, for two, on the rare occasion that they’re only a little corrupt and can be bothered to do their jobs. Then there’s the Batman and his vigilante sidekicks, though ever since the Red Hood came around they seem to have dismissed Crime Alley as a lost cause.
Drew’s not sure what to call Red Hood and his legendary pair of enforcers. Some people refer to them as vigilantes, but vigilantes usually fight crime. They don’t shoot rapists through the dick with an arrow and stand on a rooftop laughing about it. You’d never catch any of the Bats decorating that skeevy Catholic church on 115th with the decapitated head of their sorry excuse for a pedophilic priest. Vigilantes enforce law and order; those three bring a silent threat to the streets, a flash of silver the only warning given before there’s a new spray of red in the air, well on its way to becoming the next in a long line of stains on the pavement.
Drew’s a little cautious when it comes to even the most regular citizens down here. Just two months ago, one of his buddies tried to steal a purse and got a faceful of pepper spray and a broken arm for his efforts. From a seventy-five-year-old woman. With a walker.
In all fairness, you probably have to have a screw or two loose to think living here is a good idea. It takes a special kind of crazy to survive this city.
Drew knew to be careful tonight, is his point. He’s lived here his whole life, knows these streets like the back of the off-brand cereal bag he stared at every morning for his entire childhood. He knows to be on guard, knows who to approach, who to avoid, and who to run the fuck away from.
All that hard-earned knowledge wasn't enough to save his life.
It was a rookie mistake that got him. The guy had a nice smile, and he seemed familiar for some reason, and when he approached Drew shot him a wink and tossed him a line about some new shit.
“How old are you, kid?” the guy said, tilting his head playfully — almost flirtatiously. A little older than Drew would probably go for himself, but still, flattering enough to get his guard down.
“Eighteen.”
Then the guy moved in close, and he had Drew’s wallet out of his pocket, lightning-fast, before Drew could even blink. He looked from the ID to Drew and then back again with an almost regretful sigh, neatly evading Drew’s attempt to grab it back.
“Is this a fake?” he asked.
“What? No,” Drew said hastily, lying through his teeth.
“I want to say I believe you, but also, there’s no fuckin’ way,” the blond said apologetically. “And I’m supposed to sic the goon squad on anybody who’s actually legal, so…”
“Whoa, what?”
“Look, if you’re underage, we just gotta ask you a few questions. Would you consider coming with me voluntarily?”
“Oh, hell no.”
“Well, I tried.” He grabbed Drew’s wrist in an iron grip. “I really am sorry about this.”
There was a pinch at the base of Drew’s neck, and then everything went black.
As Drew tries to swim his way back to consciousness, he’s fully aware that a) he's going to die and b) he only has himself to blame. It doesn’t make him feel any better.
His neck hurts, stiff and achy where his head is tilted back against the wall, and his eyelids are too heavy to open, but he’s not physically injured. He can make out quiet voices if he focuses:
“— three black, one white, two mixed.”
“Watch the teeth with the little one, she’s feisty.”
“It’ll be hardest to get rid of the black ones, but—”
Oh Jesus. They’ve gotta be talking about kids. Drew has to fight to hold in a whimper as panic breaks through the haze of the sedative.
He manages to lift his head and squint around. He’s seated on a cheap plastic chair, and a single flickering lightbulb overhead casts ominous shadows around his corner of the big, industrial space. A warehouse, probably. To his left there are a couple more chairs around a folding table that’s littered with playing cards. Off to his right, the silhouette of a tall man is lounging against a doorframe. He’s wearing a hood of some kind, and Drew can’t make out his features in the shadows; he’s backlit in the glow that spills from what might be an office.
The masked man straightens and says, “Hey guys? He’s up.”
When he takes a few steps closer, Drew realizes he’s dressed head to toe in a black and gold samurai-style outfit. Drew’s heard enough stories about him to recognize him as Ronin.
“Took him long enough,” comes an almost robotic voice behind Ronin, and the Red Hood comes through the door: leather jacket, bastardized Bat symbol, thigh holsters and everything.
Drew is suddenly reminded of his aunt Jeanie, the one who died of a heart attack in her twenties, as he feels his own heart pound in his chest.
“Be nice, it’s not every day someone gets tranqed for the first time,” says another voice, low and steady, the speaker still out of sight.
“You never forget your first,” says Red Hood.
Ronin chuckles, flipping Drew’s fake ID between his fingers. “Is that like a coming-of-age ritual around here?”
“What’s wrong with a good old-fashioned bar mitzvah?” grumbles the third voice, its owner appearing in the doorway — and it’s then that Drew knows he’s really, truly fucked, because that flickering light is now glinting off a metal arm.
Fuck.
Drew didn’t think these three fucked with child trafficking — he’s heard rumors of what they’ve done to a few child traffickers — but what else would they be talking about?
Things were just starting to look up, too. Mom’s been sober more often than not for the last couple weeks, and Emma finally got the right combo of antidepressants, thanks to that doctor her friend Steph recommended, Sarah’s doing okay in second grade and —
He doesn’t want to die. He’s not ready. He knows he should be strong, take it like a man, but he’s not fucking ready.
Drew squeezes his eyes closed as his vision starts swimming.
“Aw, fuck,” Ronin says.
Red Hood asks, “Did he just pass out again? I really thought the dosage was right.”
“I’m telling you, there’s no way this kid is eighteen,” Ronin says.
“He’s panicking, look at him,” the Winter Soldier growls. “Hey, kid. Breathe.”
When Drew opens his eyes again, all three goddamn mob bosses are staring at him intently. Drew is so pants-shittingly afraid he can’t think straight.
“Fuck,” Red Hood mutters. He comes closer, slowly, with his hands up. “Not gonna hurt you, okay? Take a deep breath for me. Just like this.”
“The helmet makes that sound horrifying,” Ronin points out. “Very Jigsaw-y of you.”
“I will murder you,” Red Hood says, and god, that’s just what Drew needs: one lunatic irritating another. His odds of being killed will skyrocket if Hood’s already in a murder-y mood.
Maybe it’d be better if he’s pissed off? Faster? Or is he the kind of sadist who’ll take his mood out on his victim, draw it out?
Fuck, Drew really doesn’t want to die, slow or fast.
Red Hood takes off the helmet with a little hiss of air, like he’s goddamn Darth Vader or some shit, leaving him in just a red domino mask. He squats in front of Drew, close enough that Drew can see the pencil-thin scar that twists from the corner of his mouth to just under his ear.
“In through the nose, out through the mouth,” the Soldier says quietly. He and Red Hood inhale deeply, in sync.
Drew looks between them, wheels spinning before his mind kicks into gear and he realizes what they’re doing. He swallows, chokes out a strangled half-laugh, because what the fuck?
Red Hood sighs. “Come on kid, try. You need to calm down. In,” he pauses at the top, lifting a hand up, before bringing it down to his chest as he exhales, “and out.”
And Drew tries to match them, he really does, but Red Hood and the Winter Soldier are trying to teach him yoga breaths right now and he is clearly out of his goddamn mind.
“We’re not gonna hurt you,” Ronin says. “Just wanna ask you a few questions.”
The Winter Soldier glances at Ronin and does a double-take, scowling. He mutters, “You’ve got glitter in your hair.”
“Aw, no, not again,” Ronin says mournfully, and turns his back to Drew, fiddling with his hair. “No wonder the goons weren’t taking me seriously tonight.”
“Between that and the stupid gymnastics shit N’s got you doing lately, I can’t fuckin’ blame them,” Red Hood grumbles. Then he turns back to Drew and asks, “That’s a fake ID, right?”
There’s a brief second of silence filled only by Drew’s too-loud, too-fast breathing. When Drew opens his mouth to reply, all that comes out is a shrill giggle.
The three of them stare at him as he tries to get himself under control, but no. Nope, not happening.
Yoga breaths. Glitter. Gymnastics. Jesus.
“Holy fuck,” Drew says, as hysterical laughter continues to bubble in his chest, tripping its way out his mouth. “Did you dose me with whatever that new batch was? Is this a whole taste-of-my-own medicine punishment? Because Jesus Christ, did that not work out the way you wanted. Like, this is supposed to be an interrogation, right? I see your mouths moving but all I’m hearing is fucking gibberish right now.”
“Shit,” Red Hood sighs. “What did you take?”
Drew takes a wheezy breath, trying to get ahold of himself. In the momentary silence, there’s a squeaky, mewling cry from the next room, like an animal in pain.
“Goddamnit,” the Soldier growls, and stomps off in that direction.
Drew lets out a strangled noise, half-laugh half-sob, as reality tries to cut into his high.
“Yeah, I’m gonna grab the naloxone, just in case,” Red Hood says gruffly. “Will you take his pulse?”
He follows the Soldier through the door, leaving Drew alone with Ronin.
“You okay, kid?” he asks, bringing a chair over and parking it in front of Drew. He straddles the seat backward, leaning into it to grab Drew’s wrist. A few specks of glitter glint at his temple. “I mean — I know you’re probably feeling pretty loopy right now, but — ” He’s pressing two calloused fingers gently to his pulse point… which he’s able to do, because Drew’s not actually restrained. His arms are totally free. He cranes his neck to get a glimpse at his ankles, which are also not secured to the chair in any way.
“Y’all fucked up,” he giggles, and Ronin gives him a surprisingly concerned look. “I mean, I know I don’t look like a threat, but I totally do track, I could’ve run.” Then he realizes, with a sinking sensation, “That doesn’t make sense. The Winter Soldier doesn’t fuck up. Fuck, none of this makes sense.”
The Winter Soldier comes back through the door. He’s cradling a tiny white kitten in his metal hand, feeding it with an even tinier eye-dropper.
“Oh,” Drew says, voice cracking as he starts to laugh again.
“Can you try? I keep getting distracted and losing count of his heartbeats,” Ronin says to the Soldier. “Also, my turn!” He holds his hands out eagerly for the kitten — kitten, what the fuck, brain — and the Soldier switches places with him. Ronin settles at the folding table with the kitten clutched protectively to his chest.
“Okay, it’s like that,” Drew giggles. “This is a whole fuckin' hallucination... thing.” Red Hood reappears in the doorway and watches, alarmed, as Drew reaches out and pokes the Winter Soldier’s arm. It’s surprisingly solid, and so are the flesh fingers that press into his wrist. “This is cool,” he says. “I was wondering if it’d be hot or cold. You know, with the whole ‘winter’ thing, and that it’s metal. I figured hot though, like an engine?” The Winter Soldier stares at him. “Or maybe my brain assumes it’s cold right now since you’re not like, killing people with it currently.”
The Winter Soldier frowns. “We told you, we’re not gonna hurt you.”
“Kinda hard for hallucinations to hurt people,” Drew reasons. The Soldier drops Drew’s wrist, staring at him with a bewildered look on his face; Red Hood emerges from the office and crouches next to his chair, syringe in hand.
“You think,” the Soldier says slowly, carefully, “that I’m a hallucination?”
“Obviously,” Drew says. “My boss must’ve cut that shit with something toxic. I heard about a batch of speed that got laced with some nasty experimental psychedelic, totally wiped out a whole camp of meth heads in the Bowery a couple years ago.”
“Might be speed, not heroin,” the Soldier says to Hood. “His pulse is way up.”
“Is that what you took, some of what you were carrying?” Red Hood asks. “We haven’t tested it yet, but —”
“Oh, I didn’t take shit,” Drew says. “I mean, come on, I’m not stupid. But accidents happen. Maybe Holster didn’t pack it up securely, maybe it got wet and I made contact with it… that’s a thing, right?” A scarier thought occurs to him. “Shit. Did I already OD? Is this purgatory? Or one of those coma things where I have to, like, talk to my subconscious and decide whether or not to come back to life? That’d make more sense, it’s not like three mob bosses would care enough to interrogate little old me. You’d just straight-up kill me.”
Damn. Death by drug overdose is just so overdone in this town. His sisters will be pissed if that’s how he goes, assuming anyone bothers to ID his body.
“Yeah, I’m gonna go ahead and get the test kit,” Hood sighs. “Pupils aren’t dilated, I don’t want to risk anything until we know what he’s on.” His knee pops as he gets to his feet, and he grunts.
This is one vivid-ass hallucination.
“Goddammit, Holster. That motherfucker,” Drew thinks out loud. “I’m gonna kill him. Or haunt him, maybe.” He tilts his head. “Hey, are ghosts real? Can you answer that? Are we granted that kind of knowledge before we die? Is it always in our subconscious?”
“Jesus Christ,” the Soldier grumbles.
“If I had a nickel for every time somebody mistook me for a drug-induced hallucination, I’d have two nickels,” Ronin says. “Which isn’t a lot, but it is weird it happened twice.”
“Not how I expected my subconscious to manifest, though, gotta say,” Drew admits. “I hadn’t even heard of you guys until recently. Always figured it’d be Batman, or maybe Nightwing. I wish it was Nightwing. I think I deserve to see that ass one more time before I die.”
Ronin bursts out laughing at that and calls, “Please tell me you heard that, Hood.”
“Unfortunately,” Hood says as he comes back in, making a pained face.
The kitten in Ronin’s hands makes a plaintive sound and he coos at it. Man, Drew’s imagination is so much better than his last English teacher thought.
“Don’t suppose you’re in the market for a kitten or three?” the Winter Soldier asks.
“They keep finding him,” Ronin chips in. “He’s like the patron saint of feral cats.”
“Feral cats and little old ladies,” Red Hood says.
Drew laughs so hard that he falls off the chair.
“Jesus Christ, kid, pull it together,” the Soldier grumbles. He lowers his head to his forearms. “This is why I’m not the one who deals with fucking teenagers.”
Implying that there is one of this trio that is typically assigned to deal with teenagers. Wow, Drew’s brain is a wild place, able to imagine shit like this.
“Lemme guess,” he asks, voice strained with the effort of holding in his giggles. “Red Hood gets the teenagers?”
“Yes,” says Ronin, at the same time Hood says, “Fuck off.”
God, all this laughing is starting to give him a cramp. Or maybe that’s the drugs getting ready to shut down his entire nervous system, or whatever.
“Jesus Christ,” the Soldier says again, because Drew’s imagination seems to have run out of stock sentences for this NPC.
“Speaking of,” Drew says. “Did you guys really put a decapitated priest’s head in baby Jesus’ manger this Christmas?”
This time Ronin and the Soldier sigh in sync.
“It was symbolic,” the Red Hood says, and if he wasn’t such an utterly terrifying human being, Drew would almost call his tone petulant. “If the fucker’s gonna molest kids, it just makes sense for his head to be found in an appropriately emblematic location for his blaspheming ass. Quae seminaverit homo haec et metet — What a man sows, that he will also reap.”
“Wow,” Drew says. “My brain’s Red Hood is a fucking nerd.”
Ronin laughs so hard he almost drops the kitten, and the Winter Soldier is smiling like he wants to join in now.
“I hate you all,” Red Hood grumbles, even as the corner of his mouth twitches.
The Soldier scoops Drew up off the floor and deposits him in the chair, brushing him off carefully. Then he bends to look Drew in the eyes as he says earnestly, “We’re real. How do I convince you?”
He's not so terrifying up close. There's something oddly reassuring about the steady, calm way he's watching Drew.
“At this point? I honestly don’t think I could make this shit up if I tried.” Drew shrugs, letting out one last hiccuping giggle before he wipes the tears from his eyes.
“I’m sorry we scared you,” Red Hood sighs. “But we really do need to ask you some questions. Do you think you can answer?” He holds a bottle of water out to Drew, who takes and sips it tentatively.
“I can try,” he says. “He doesn’t tell us much, honestly.”
“Is that your real ID?” Hood prompts.
Drew makes a face, torn, but admits, “No. They won’t let us go out without an ID anymore. Not if we’re under eighteen. If you want to pick up, you gotta have your fake.”
“And they take the real one as collateral?” Ronin asks.
“Yeah. Or your EBT card, if you don’t have one.”
“Shoulda seen this coming,” the Red Hood says roughly, massaging his temples like he has a headache. “Assholes. Fuck.”
“But it’s your real name?” Ronin asks. When Drew nods again, the three of them exchange a significant look. “So it’s custom, which means — ”
“That forger who was working for Black Mask,” the Soldier says. “Gotta be.”
“Fuck,” Hood snaps. He starts pacing, clenching and unclenching his fists. “This is my fault.”
“Hey, it’s okay,” Ronin says, soothing and quiet. “You know it was the best option at the time. Even if a couple of the smaller fish wriggled out, Mask’s still in Arkham. And the peace treaty’s still intact. It was the right choice.”
“A nice headshot would’ve been the right choice for Black Mask,” Hood snarls, and gestures at the Soldier. “He had a clean angle! Can’t cut a deal to rat out somebody who’s dead.” He rakes his hands through his hair, practically shaking with how tense his muscles are. “I knew we couldn’t trust that new cop. I told B something like this would happen.”
“Okay, deep breaths,” the Soldier says, getting to his feet and placing himself in Hood’s path to interrupt his pacing. He puts his hands on Hood’s upper arms and starts doing yoga breaths again.
Instead of following his lead, Hood lets out a low, frustrated growl — an honest-to-god growl like a goddamn junkyard dog, and there must be something seriously wrong with Drew, because he should not find that so fucking attractive right now.
Ronin says something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “So hot when you’re angry.”
At least Drew’s not the only one.
“Not in front of the kid,” Hood mumbles. He’s distinctly flushed under the domino, but he seems a little calmer. He takes a deep breath and pulls himself together before he and the Soldier both come over to sit in front of Drew again.
“You mentioned a Holster. Is that your boss?” the Soldier asks. Drew nods. “How long have you been working for him?”
“I didn’t know when I started, okay? There was this guy, he said —” He breaks off, head spinning as he starts to understand where this is going. “Shit, please don’t take the fake. I fucked up, I know I did, but at least let me get my real one back. I need it if I’m gonna apply for a legal job. I swear I was trying, but rent’s due in a few days and my mom —”
“Hey, no, it’s okay,” the Soldier says firmly.
“Jesus, what time is it?” Drew says, stomach like lead. “I was counting on making at least a hundred tonight, but — fuck.”
“Do you need to get home for curfew?” Ronin asks, eyes startlingly concerned over the mask that covers his mouth. The kitten he was holding is asleep in his lap, and he’s petting its tiny fuzzy head with a single careful finger. The sight makes Drew question, once again, whether this is real life.
“Not curfew,” Drew says, almost laughing at the idea of his mom trying to enforce a curfew. “But I gotta get a couple hours of sleep before I get to school.” The three of them exchange a look, but Drew can’t focus on anything except the sudden wave of exhaustion, now that the “oh god oh god I’m gonna die” adrenaline is ebbing away.
“Look, we want to take down your boss, but we’re not gonna leave you high and dry while we do it,” Red Hood says. He grabs Drew’s wallet from the table, pulls a roll of bills out of his own pocket, and tucks a few inside before replacing the fake ID and handing the whole thing over. “I want you to act totally normal, okay? Pretend this never happened.”
“Question is, are you gonna help us get the sonofabitch who set you up?” the Soldier asks.
Drew stares numbly at the corner of a hundred-dollar bill that’s poking out of his battered old wallet. He tucks it into his pocket with shaking hands.
“You don’t have to say yes,” Ronin says quietly. “He’s not gonna take that back if you just wanna walk away.”
Red Hood nods. “I know what it’s like for Crime Alley kids. You do what you gotta do, right? Ain’t your fault somebody manipulated you. But I made it very clear what would happen to anybody getting kids involved in the drug trade, and one way or another I’m gonna find this asshole and take him down. If you wanna help, I’ll pay you for your time and make sure you’re taken care of until you can find a job.”
“He can’t find out it was me,” Drew says. “He can’t.”
Hood holds out a hand for him to shake. “Deal.”
Drew eyes the hand warily. He has no goddamn idea why he trusts this guy; trusting grown-ups was what got him in this fucking mess in the first place. But there’s something fierce and steady in the way Hood’s eyes are watching him from behind the domino, the Soldier is giving him a tiny understanding smile, and there’s a sleeping kitten in Ronin’s lap... and Drew wants to hope.
“Still not convinced I didn’t hallucinate this whole thing,” he mumbles, shaking the outstretched hand. “Or that I didn’t die outside that club. If I wake up in a hospital I’m gonna be pissed.”
Red Hood looks up at the ceiling and huffs out a sigh, clearly exasperated. It’s a little like what Drew’s mom used to do when he and Emma were being particularly annoying, or Sarah wouldn’t go to sleep. Hood stands up, beckoning Drew to follow him into the office.
“Take this,” Hood says, pulling a burner phone and cable from a drawer and handing it to him. “It’s programmed with my number. I need a little time to get some things in place, and then I’ll be in touch. You think you can act normal for a few days?”
Drew nods, staring at the box of kittens on the floor. Sure enough, three are black and two have a mix of black-and-white patches.
There are some new voices outside, and a second later, Ronin comes in, holding the white kitten in one hand and the red helmet in the other. He says, “The guys are back from that run.”
“Shit, okay,” Hood mutters, putting on the helmet as Ronin tucks the kitten into the blanket nest with its siblings. “Will you and your glitter walk him home?”
“You got it, boss,” Ronin says cheerfully, and out of the corner of his eye, Drew catches him blowing a kiss. Weird way for the hallucinations to notch back up again, but okay.
Drew lets Ronin herd him through the warehouse — he sees the Soldier, Hood, and three strangers standing around a crate of what looks like guns, and it’s such a stark contrast with what he’s seen so far that Drew almost starts laughing again. Ronin leads the way onto the street, checking the surroundings before urging Drew forward. The sky is looking suspiciously lavender-colored at the horizon; no wonder Drew is so tired.
“What’s your address?” Ronin asks, when Drew pauses at the corner to try to figure out where the fuck he is. When Drew tells him, Ronin thinks for a second and brightens. “Oh, is that the old one with the gargoyle that looks like he’s blowing his nose?”
“That’s the one,” Drew says, around a jaw-cracking yawn.
“This way,” Ronin says. “I named that one Sir Reginald Phlegmworthy.”
“That — what?”
“The gargoyle. It’s hard to keep track of which roof is which, y’know? I named the noteworthy gargoyles so I can remember which one is which.”
“Right. Okay. Sure.”
Drew has his hand on the pepper spray he keeps in his pocket, out of habit, but as it turns out, that’s not necessary. A would-be mugger steps out of the shadows into their path, but he freezes the second he sees Ronin’s distinctive hood.
“Do you really think that’s a smart choice?” Ronin says, in a mild, scolding tone like he’s talking to a toddler. The guy shakes his head mutely and skitters away.
By the time they get to his apartment building, Drew feels like the walking dead. He fumbles with the door code and is surprised when Ronin moves to follow him inside.
“I’m fine, really,” he says, but Ronin waves him off. “A gentleman, who’da thunk it,” Drew mutters, feet dragging as he starts up the stairs.
“Hey, ask around and get in touch if you know anybody who’s in the market for a kitten, yeah?” Ronin asks cheerfully.
“Sure,” Drew tells him. He opens the apartment door and almost trips over a Barbie, stumbling forward. Ronin follows him inside before he can close the door. “Shit.”
Ronin is glancing around at the clutter: the dirty dishes, the past due bills stuck to the fridge, his mom’s bottles from the previous day lined up by the sink… Drew’s cheeks burn as he braces himself for the awkward questions, the caring adult routine he’s had to fend off from the neighbors lately.
But Ronin just hesitates, looking at him with a painful sort of understanding as he says, “Take care of yourself, okay? What Hood gave you should cover rent, the landlord shouldn’t be charging you more than that for this rat trap — but if he is, just let us know, okay? Shitty landlords are one of my specialties. But really — if you need anything.”
“Of course, yeah, sure.”
Ronin shakes his head like he can tell Drew doesn’t believe him. He inspects the deadbolt and the chain skeptically. “Lock up behind me. Get some sleep.”
“Thanks,” Drew blurts out, because part of him is still convinced he’s dead in an alleyway somewhere, but if he really is home safe, he should probably remember his damn manners.
“Course,” Ronin says, and pauses with a hand on the doorknob to add, “Hey, Drew?”
“Yeah?”
“They’re really lucky to have you looking out for them,” Ronin says firmly. “And I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but I promise you’re gonna get through this.”
Before Drew can think of anything to say to that, Ronin lifts one hand in an awkward little wave and slips through the door, closing it carefully. Drew swallows the lump in his throat and locks up behind him.
There’s that fragile little bubble of hope again; he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry. He faceplants into bed and falls asleep before he can do either.
When he checks his wallet in the morning, half-convinced the whole thing was a dream, he does both.