Nick seems similarly thrown. Daniel can at least take comfort in the fact that it's not just him.

"I felt it too," he mutters, grip tense against the reassuring solidity of the wheel. He squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to reorder everything in his head, make sense of a timeline that's suddenly become corrupt. When he opens them again, the disorder has progressed into the spatial as well as temporal - the road flickers in his vision like something out of a mirage, as if it can't decide whether it wants to exist or not. The pressure of reality compounding against itself, barriers folding.

The sunlight is far too close, scintillating in its proximity. And then it - shifts, displacing into a hardened column, stark against quivering roadway, emblazoning white-hot imprints of its formless silhouette against closed eyelids.

Daniel swerves to avoid the thing that he's not sure is really there.

Between heartbeats the road breaks and reforms, scatters beneath tires and organizes back into its recognizable shape.

"What the hell is -" he begins, before the car swings in an unstable arc to slam into something vertical and uncompromising and sickeningly physical.