It may take Ginko a few moments to figure out where he is. He may have spent plenty of hours in this room, but those hours probably weren't spent looking at the ceiling.

But maybe he'll recognise the ceiling fan, plain as it is, with its five white-painted blades and two out of four functioning bulbs. Or the bed, with its heavy blue and white and yellow quilt covering rumpled sheets and its flat, hard-used pillow. Or the walls, bare of posters; or the windows, firmly shuttered; or the nightstand, with its stray pennies and assorted unspeakables; or--

Or just Foster van Denend, because he's right there, seated with his back to Ginko, his hair let down and legs off the edge of the bed. He hasn't noticed Ginko's waking state yet; he's preoccupied with a phone, his unseen face illuminated by the glow its screen as he scrolls impatiently through.... something. It's not like Ginko can read it.

But it's definitely not Foster's phone, either.