Lyra slumped down. Who makes these chairs, somepony who has a cutie mark of spurs? Has she ever seen a pony before? Lyra fidgeted around, trying to find a vaguely comfortable position. She finally settled for lying on her belly across two of the torture chairs—a position where she could relax and still keep an eye on him. Unexpectedly, the soft whisper of Dale’s breath and the incessant gentle beep of the monitor put Lyra to sleep.