He can tell there's warmth now, the room and the blankets and the fire and the company all slowly spreading through his bones, settling in. Tom welcomes it gladly, welcomes the Doctor (that's what it is!) just as gladly.

"Oh, I found my way," he assures. "Made a home. A little air pocket just for me. A hotel room, actually, and I could do whatever I wanted. Make whatever I wanted!" That doesn't answer the question, though. Tom quiets down, thinks a bit. That's helpful, too, and eventually he shifts not out of need, but out of comfort.

"What year is it?"