“I know when I’m awake and when I’m asleep,” Ronan Lynch said.
Adam Parrish, curled over himself in a pair of battered, greasy coveralls, asked, “Do you?”
Ronan made an ugly sound of scorn or mirth. He was like Cabeswater: a maker of dreams. If he didn’t know the difference between waking and sleeping, it was because the difference didn’t matter to him. “Maybe I dreamt you,” he said.
“Thanks for the straight teeth, then,” Adam replied.