They came out of the space at the same hour they'd gone in, and the roof was exactly as they'd left it: cold tar, a rusted water tank, and a sky the color of dishwater.
Erik stood still for a moment while his body argued with the change. Two days of sleep and warm grass had left him clear-headed, and the cold made it almost insulting. His right arm worked. A pale, branching scar ran from wrist to elbow like a pressed fern, a souvenir of too much current, and it itched in the damp.
"I hate this part," Kai said, shivering. He flexed his hands. The skin on his palms was pink and tight, the way healed burns look, and he held them a little away from his body. "Every time. It's like stepping out of a bath into a freezer."
"You'll live."
"That's what you say about everything."
