"This must be a fabrication," said one soggy Doctor Frederick Chilton as he sat alone nearer a corner -- only a tankard of some unruly spiced wine to keep him company. He seemed immune to the lutesong wafting in the tavern air, and it was perhaps clear that he was a man out of place as much as he was out of time. There was no rubbing shoulders with the masses in this hearth-warmed, sockless environment. It was hardly a lofty psychiatric office.

"None of this can be -- " That's when he glanced upward and over, his eyes like magnets to Will Graham. " -- Real."

Amazing that Will could be spotted despite all the shuffling and shivering bodies, wasn't it? But then again, Will Graham had always been unique. Chilton jolted, as if electrified by the sight, and his feet began to move before he could even question his reality once more.

"Tell me this cannot be real."

That's the implied question he asked Will, the moment he was in earshot. That one.