He hasn't spoken a single word since before the drift started. That fact only seems to start to register now; he hadn't even tried before. Hadn't seemed necessary. They were talking by thought, the speed of thought alone. Words, verbal words, are clunky, slow. He feels clunky and slow.

Malcolm's hands slide over York's, feeling the ridges where veins pop out, reveling in the warmth. That seems grounding. This might be reality after all.