Johnny remains more or less implacable in the face of Tim's distress, though he does wince, half sympathy, half regret for giving him one more reason to freak out. He takes another pull and releases the smoke toward the fireplace.

"There's one way that doesn't involve getting help from a supernatural entity," he says, "and we do have a few of those running around, and not all of them are helpful. But. The other method isn't one that I recommend." He doesn't really want to think about this. He stretches out, sighing heavily.

"You can die," he says. "In dreams. That makes you wake up. But, uh, again, not recommended." How many times has he done it now? He should count that out, but he suspects it would be awful and depressing.

"Look, sometimes the mood shifting... thing, it's exactly as fucked up as it sounds." He pulls his blanket up a little more snugly. "Sometimes, it's just... what it is. Dreaming we're all in a scary forest, we're all scared, even though nothing fucking happened in that one." Well, almost. "Dreaming we're in a safe, friendly cabin, and we all feel friendly and safe. It's just to go with the decor, so to speak."

He shrugs. Is this the apathy that comes with experience or part of the mood alteration? He can't even tell. "We kind of have to just make do and wait it out," he says. "These ones, the big shared ones, they tend to have a theme. This one is so fucking innocuous - fireplaces, blankets, couches everywhere - it's like a giant sleepover. Trust me. Enjoy it while you can. Because there are so many things that are so much worse."

Again, not helping. He sighs and laughs dryly. "Sorry," he says. "I'm just, you know. Trying to prepare you. Nobody prepared me." He sounds like a grizzled war veteran. He makes the executive decision to shut up.