Don half-turns to look, steps slowing then stopping altogether. "Jesus," he murmurs, the word muffled by the cigarette in his mouth. His eyes travel the length of the machine; he shakes his head, smiles as if he's trying the expression on for size and it doesn't fit quite right. The sight pains him in an inexplicable, elusive way: like breathing in stinging air on a cold morning.

"How's it feel to come back to earth?"