The Doctor rubs his eyes and stares at the hole in the stone brick wall above him. He’s used to sleeping on the floor now, with all the dust and...
“Are you coming in? Because I can’t come out. Presently. A state which, with your help,” he says to the inordinate amount of dust inside the brick’s former home, “I hope to rectify sooner rather than later. So come out, come out, wherever you are!”
The fuzzy dust begins to crawl down the stone bricks toward him, a low, creeping dust bunny.
“Well now, do I need a bookmark or some lemon-scented spray?”
The dust grows up, flowing in a swirl around his hand.
“I think for your sake it’s lucky I don’t have either,” he murmurs, his head close to his chest as he scrunches his face against the wall, unwilling, for the moment, to move himself.
He looks at his hand.
There is a black cell phone in it.
He shoots his eyebrows up, respectfully, then dials a number.
“Namaste!” he quips, lovingly, into the mobile. “Is this The Library?”