Things came in little pieces. First it was a cut of yellow light across his vision, solidifying into a beam of sunlight. Beyond it, wooden planks, soft with age. His gaze dropped, and he stared down at the floor. Bits of hay, slow floating dust motes on the air. The scent of animal and hay and dust and home hit him harder then a phaser, and Kirk looked around slowly. He was in a barn, and he wasn't alone.
( For a second, he didn't even recognize the man. )