It’s three in the morning when I shake you gently awake. You look up, shaking off vague dreams of building a house with tall walls, and it takes a little while to orient yourself. “Bluh? What’s the matter?” I’m doing that thing where I’m looking at you like I’m the luckiest man in the world again. At least you think I am. Your eyes are not quite focusing despite your excellent night vision, and you can feel that your hair is sticking at right angles where you slept on it.