They can't sleep. Neither of them can, and Cobb knows this, even if he doesn't outright acknowledge it. What he acknowledges instead--what he focuses on--is that it's because it's his fault.

Everything is, and Cobb is both acutely aware of it and refuses to address it. They run, and they get into scraps either dreamed or from the real world, and they repeat the entire process while Cobb fights like hell to get back to see his kids.

This is one of those days. Nights, he supposes, in a safe house that's far more like an efficiency apartment. He's made coffee--might as well be fully awake than half asleep--and he's staring at a map when he can sense Arthur behind him. He lifts the cup to his lips, squinting at the map in front of him like it's a puzzle, and his hand is in his pocket, totem curled tight.

"Trying to figure out where to lay low," he murmurs.