John thought he was going insane. He had to be, right? Because there was no way, no way in hell, that you were here.

That you were standing here in front of him, alive, looking at him like he was a weirdo exactly like you always did whenever he'd do something juvenile and stupid, like you always did back in the 1890s when you'd both been part of Dutch's damned gang.

John had to be insane, he had to be, to be seeing you. But he wasn't.

And he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.