[ The man's tone certainly doesn't offend or upset the boy; on the contrary, it soothes him. It feels like being petted, like a hand stroking through locks of hair, soft and gentle. It's encouraging, helps him keep thinking a bit more.

Granted... such a thing is also frightening in its ways. It'd be easier to fade into nothingness, to not think, or feel. Now he's remembering how that dreamlike train felt, smelled — too real to be any dream. And he's starting to feel the pain in the centre of his face return, can smell the sharp copper of crusted blood around his broken nose, and feel the pull of the bandage.

He grasps the man's hand a bit tighter. ]

Okay. [ He says, softly, and still halfway-haunted by someone else's mannerism for the lingering moment, with the way his head dips down close to his chest. Like his little sister Charlie would behave, and speak, and even walk, shuffling footsteps beside Midnight. ]

I remember.... a dog. At the train station. She talked to me. ....It must have been a dream.

[ No, there really was a talking dog here, Peter.... As his mind quietly struggles to form thought again, more of Peter continues to seep out, and after a few moments, something occurs to him. It's a terrifying thought, but he asks it weirdly calmly. Maybe he's already wondered this. ]

.....Is this Hell?