The look Wolfgang gives her there is a bit bleary and confused, as if the idea of doing something about it has never occurred to him. But then, what is there to do?

He shrugs, frowning back down at the grooves in the table. "Just... deal. I guess." He fidgets suddenly, tugging on his hair, chewing on his nails, stopping only when he gets a flake of nail varnish in his mouth. "It's not real, is it?"

It comes from a real place — real memories of real events — but the dream itself is just a recollection; when he wakes up, it ends, and his body is fine. When he says it, though — it's not real — he sounds uncertain, as if the distinction doesn't occur to him naturally. It's not supposed to count if it's all in your head. But if other people see it and experience it and are affected by it, does that not make it real?

He looks sort of miserable.