Where? His eyes were still closed, but he could tell that he was lying on something. There was a stiff, cool pressure beneath him, and the faint weight of something draped over his body, a sheet or a light blanket. Behind him, the sound of distant voices, footsteps. He inhaled, and his nose filled with the smell of beer and fried food.

A bar, then. He was in a bar.

Open your eyes, he told himself, but the command had no effect on his physical body. His eyelids felt glued shut, two strips of flesh held tight by something sticky. He tried again and, this time, a slight groan escaped his lips. Light burst across his retinas. The brightness was overwhelming. Pain shot straight through his skull, shocking him so much that he closed his eyes again, on instinct, grimacing.

He took deep, even breaths through his nose, waiting for his heartbeat to steady before he tried again.

The room was long and narrow, with a single window on the far side, a thin curtain hanging over it. He was lying on a bed, and he appeared to be wearing his own clothes, but they were bloodstained, dirty.

He tried to lift his head, but pain prickled up his neck, and he let it drop back down onto the pillow, eyelids fluttering.

Something very bad had happened. He knew that for sure. He closed his eyes and tried to remember what it was.

He’d expected to find nothing, empty space and darkness, but the memory was still there, right where he’d left it. He reached for it, and it was like a current dragging him downriver, gasping. Once he started the memory playing, there was nothing he could do to stop it again.

He saw the time machine and Quinn. Mac. The future. The gunshot.

A hum rose in his skull, the sound blocking out all other noise. His fingers curled toward his palms, fingernails digging into skin. The room felt very small and very dark, and a terror like Roman had never felt before took hold of him.

He’d been shot.

His hand leaped to his chest, nervously, searching for a bullet hole. He found a bandage, still damp with blood. His breathing started to steady.

“Well, look who decided to wake up,” said a voice.

Roman eased his eyes open and saw a girl standing just inside the door of his room. She was wearing light-wash jeans and a white sweatshirt, hair falling over her forehead in soft tangles.

She smiled at him as she came inside. “We were thinking of taking bets on whether you’d ever wake up at all. My money was on yes, but Pop says I’m an optimist.”