[Aren't they always hitting it. Beckett lets out a faint frustrated growl, which peters out into a cough. Sad noises. Has he mentioned being tired yet?]

You'd think after three hundred years in my line of inquiry I'd be used to being fed cryptic half-truths and told I'm not ready for true knowledge. Or is it that none of us know to ask the right questions when we meet mysterious dream entities and tight-lipped bastards on the network?