Tyrell is just as smooth in return, obligingly lifting binoculars to his eyes and allowing himself to be guided, brow pinched. Smooths again when he lands where he's meant to be, the corner of his mouth curling up in amusement he can afford.

Two people, moving out of rhythm with one another. One disappears from the window, the other doesn't follow.

"They're not talking," he observes. "But maybe there's music. "

He lowers the binoculars. "There was a flight from Berlin, where I watched a couple in front of me sit in complete silence. Twelve hours. They didn't sleep, just watched the in-flight entertainment. Left the terminal, holding hands. People are strange."

Says Tyrell Wellick. He offers back the binoculars, picking up the drink he'd set down. "I sympathise, anyway. I can't sleep on planes."