He nods again, automatically breathing in slow, holding, breathing out, following the count Malcolm taught him. It isn’t going away, that weird psychological map around him, but the breathing refines his attention. Turns the mental static from a wash of emotions bleeding into each other to concentrated blots of loneliness and loss.

“God,” Neal whispers. “It’s awful.”

It’s awful and he doesn’t hate it. But fatigue chews at him, an exhaustion that somehow runs deeper than bone, and he realizes he’s losing his grip on the emotions. They’re fading. For a wild second he tries to hang on to that extra sense, realizes what he’s doing, and lets go of the effort.