Tubby woke up to the noise of someone wandering into her room. It was the middle of the night and ink-black; the intruder had closed the door behind him. She opened her eyes wide but didn't move.

"Chris?" Mr. Chen's voice said in English. Tubby heard him collapse into the armchair. "Chris, I can't sleep again." Tubby knew what that meant, coming from a man, and prepared to defend her honor from the supine position; but Mr. Chen did not move.

"I'm in the dungeon," he said. "I have to make the dragon's head come into focus in the mirror. No." Tubby heard him breathing, deep and harsh. "That was a while ago. Getting the dragon's head in focus, that wasn't too hard. I wonder what I have to do now. Uk." The chair's feet squeaked on the linoleum once, then again. Mr. Chen was making wet noises. Something thumped. Tubby scrabbled for the lamp, but a flare of hot pain tore at her back. Eventually she got the light on.

Mr. Chen's head lolled back on the chair, his white-knuckled hands gripping its arms, eyes rolled back, lips frosted with fine spit bubbles. Tubby caught this posture only as an afterimage; his entire body leapt when light filled the room. Tubby thought for a sick moment that she had rekindled his seizure, but the tension left his body as quickly as it had come. He wiped the spittle off his lips and stared, wild-eyed, at Tubby. "Jesus shit," he said in English, "what are you doing in my room?"