At the Copenhagen airport, Paul stayed up until he couldn’t stay up anymore, then fell asleep until he felt a finger horizontal under his nostrils.

When he opened his eyes he realized he was looking into his own. His unmistakable, pubescent self was bending over him, the fingers on one hand checking for signs of life and the fingers on the other bound in bandages looking like grief.

As he readjusted to wakefulness Teeth’s face appeared in Paul’s mind and Paul gave a start. “What time is it?”

“8:30.” Young Paul’s accent was foreign and hard to swallow.

Paul’s shoulders slumped in relief. With help from the armrests he pushed himself to his feet, then turned back around in the manner of having a thought. “Um. I’m going to get a croissant. You hungry?”