Nate says his brother is here and indicates his lap, and for a moment Lila thinks he's making some kind of dick joke, except that he doesn't seem the type. At least not to make one to her.

You don't see him.

She doesn't. She only sees Nate, hunched on the ground, his shoulders sloped in defeat, talking about an invisible brother. There was a man who frequented a pub Lila used to go to on occasion back in her London. The others had called him Mad Martin because he used to talk to himself, or talk to you like you were someone else entirely. They hadn't been wrong, calling him mad, but he'd been nothing like Nate. She can't imagine this man turning into anything like old Martin.

"Maybe you just need some sleep," Lila says, an unusual gentleness in her voice. "Or you've had a few too many beers?"