He is and isn't, all at once. Like Trench's office is being projected over his cabin in some strange palimpsest. Both places trying to exist in the same space.

"You," he says, quietly, leaning into Tom's touch like a pet cat. And then winces a little because -- well, obviously Tom is there. "You're over my shoulder, I mean. Talking to me, still. But he -- Zachariah. My -- my friend. He's sitting at his desk. Smoking, of course." He laughs a little, but it's emotional. Tear stained. "Like some damned film noir detective, with his desk lamp and a cloud of cigarette smoke."