"I used to dream about you," Lisa says on the second night. They're sitting in her tiny kitchen, Nick sipping pig's blood, Lisa leaning over a carton of reheated noodles. She waves her chopsticks as she tells him about waking from vague dream-memories of glowing eyes.
She shakes her head. "I wasn't afraid. You wouldn't be here if I'd been afraid."
Her trust is equal parts warming and terrifying.
"Janette should be here soon," Nick says, cursing again the era of passports and paperwork.
"It's fine," Lisa says, and then pauses. "I'm glad I finally know the truth."