Magnus catches half a glimpse of the interior and staggers back, slumping against the wall. Then he forces himself to peer through the doorway again. He takes in the worn off-blue carpet, the old brown couch, the camping gear waiting to be tucked away in a closet, the framed photos on the wall of a little kid and a beautiful woman with a blonde pixie cut grinning: holding up a fish in one; in front of a tent in another; playing in a pile of leaves in the park in a third.

He stares.

He reaches through the doorway.

He steps backward, again and again, until the knob of the door across the hall is digging into his back.

"I'm done with this door," he tells Galahad. "Close it. It's, like. Not giants."