Dextera always has a wilting look about him, but Emet-Selch’s question pronounces it—but the expression that crosses his face, if only briefly, is not defeated so much as frustrated. He dreamed of these things, but the nightmares he used to suffer in his waking life always swept away any details he might have wanted to keep.

“No,” he answers, softly, looking down at his hands in his lap. “I know… things. I know what other people have told me. But I don’t remember anything for myself.”

His shoulders fall.

“I wanted to meet my brother.”