She looks like a bloody nightmare, herself. For a moment Bill wonders whether he's slipped back into the dream and this is one of the not Nancys or both of the not Nancys, the sign of his ills and the would-be bringer of his end. Course that can't be; he's as awake as he's ever been, and this is... He's in the bed they share. He's in her place, their place. He never dreams about their home, so this can't be a dream, can't possibly.

Still, the way she looks, the way she's looking at nothing. It ain't right. Almost ain't human.

"Jesus. Jesus..." He's still clutching her wrist, half because he's too caught up in staring at her face to remember to release, half because he's afraid to let her go, afraid she'll either attack him (all the while following him with those eyes, and look at her eyes now, stretched wide, unseeing maybe but there's blame in them, isn't there? isn't there?) or fall back into ash.

"Oi, Nancy!" Now his hand goes to her jaw, tilting her face toward his own, trying not to look too hard into those open eyes. "Nancy, come now, wake up."