Ford hunched over the kitchen table, re-reading one of his journals, trying to refresh thirty-year-old memories. Trying. Every line swam in front of his eyes, rendering even the unencoded parts inscrutable.
The fact that it was 3:30 in the morning couldn't be helping.
This was stupid.
Except it wasn't, because there was a certain logic to it: Bill could only pester him in the mindscape, he had to be dreaming to enter the mindscape, and he had to be asleep to dream, so, so long as he stayed awake…
"Sixer?"
"What the—oh. Stanley."
"…wha'cha doin'?"
"I… I don't know."