Erika woke in a sweat, blind with the dream, and she waited until the world came into focus.
When she went downstairs, wrapped in a silk robe, the Doctor was hunched over it, tools in hand, steady as steel. Nearly all of the workshop lights had been re-angled, and the scene glowed like a theatre.
“Almost done?” she asked.
“Not almost,” he said, muffled by the rag over his mouth.
He shut the panel, and the thing began to tick, slowly, rhythmically, and then faster and faster until the sound became a whir. With a lurch, the Tinkertoy stood.