He nods thoughtfully. Dreams. Feuilly has his share of those, and has the impression that his friends do too. Some of them are much clearer than his waking memories of the fight, and he doesn't know which to believe.

His hand is on Harry's arm; he rubs it gently. "I don't know. I mean--I don't--" Feuilly doesn't have any answers. "I don't know any more about it than you do."