It's automatic. Howard's hand goes from around his upper arm to his pocket, to the folding knife he keeps there, and he flips it open as the teenagers approach. They're all bigger than him, clean, well-fed, he notices. They also don't seem to be targeting him at all, though they don't stop as they approach. He holds his ground.

He holds his ground and they pass through him, like ghosts. Like projected images. He holds his breath.

"Just a dream," he tells himself, even if this is far too linear to be a dream. He holds the knife close, but flicks the blade closed. "Just a dream."

He follows the teens; after a moment, he reaches out to take a wallet. His hand passes through the guy's pelvis just fine, but while he seems to get a grasp on the wallet for a second, it can't get past the kid's body. It's like Howard can touch it, but it still exists on a different plane.

Weird.