Jedao carries him into the room that's sometimes Quentin's quiet room, sometimes Tup's room, sometimes a spare room. It's small, and white: white walls, white sheets, white blanket.

Jedao putters and frets, checks his pulse and once or twice his pupils, but ultimately decides to wait it out. Whenever Jim returns to consciousness, he's still in the bathrobe and under a few cozy white blankets, on a mattress on a bare white floor. Jedao is a pillar of black and gold in the otherwise colorless room. He sits cross-legged, reading something on a tablet. There's a glass of water, a plate of fresh-ish blueberry and chocolate muffins from the dining hall, and coffee kept sacriligiously warm in one of Jedao's self-heating teacups.