Dennis could follow the passing of days now. His room had a window, and the sun came in. He hadn't left his room yet. Every time he tried, he couldn't breathe, and dots appeared in his one good eye. But he could sit in a chair and feel the sun on his skin; sometimes, if he felt brave, he would look out of the window. There was a park where he could see trees, birds, and people walking their dogs. He had been in his nice room with the soft bed for a week. Seven sunrises. He had not missed a single one. His arm was straight, his beard was gone, and his hair was trimmed. His eye was still cloudy, but the woman glamoured it to look normal. When Dennis looked in the mirror, he recognised himself. Older than he remembered and more scarred. But it was him.