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They
crossed
the
living
room
,
dining
room
,
kitchen
.
Louis
expected
Pascow
to
turn
the
lock
and
then
lift
the
latch
on
the
door
which
connected
the
kitchen
to
the
shed
where
he
garaged
the
station
wagon
and
the
Civic
,
but
Pascow
did
no
such
thing
.
Instead
of
opening
the
door
,
he
simply
passed
through
it
.
And
Louis
,
watching
,
thought
with
mild
amazement
:
Is
that
how
it
's
done
?
Remarkable
!
Anyone
could
do
that
!
He
tried
it
himself
--
and
was
a
little
amused
to
meet
only
unyielding
wood
.
Apparently
he
was
a
hard-headed
realist
,
even
in
his
dreams
.
Louis
twisted
the
knob
on
the
Yale
lock
,
lifted
the
latch
,
and
let
himself
into
the
shed-garage
.
Pascow
was
not
there
.
Louis
wondered
briefly
if
Pascow
had
just
ceased
to
exist
.
Figures
in
dreams
often
did
just
that
.
So
did
locations
--
first
you
were
standing
nude
by
a
swimming
pool
with
a
raging
hardon
,
discussing
the
possibilities
of
wife
swapping
with
,
say
,
Roger
and
Missy
Dandridge
;
then
you
blinked
and
you
were
climbing
the
side
of
a
Hawaiian
volcano
.
Maybe
he
had
lost
Pascow
because
this
was
the
beginning
of
Act
II
.
But
when
Louis
emerged
from
the
garage
,
he
saw
him
again
,
standing
in
the
faint
moonlight
at
the
back
of
the
lawn
--
at
the
head
of
the
path
.
Now
fear
came
,
entering
softly
,
sifting
through
the
hollow
places
of
his
body
and
filling
them
up
with
dirty
smoke
.
He
did
n't
want
to
go
up
there
.
He
halted
.
Pascow
glanced
back
over
his
shoulder
,
and
in
the
moonlight
his
eyes
were
silver
.
Louis
felt
a
hopeless
crawl
of
horror
in
his
belly
.
That
jutting
bone
,
those
dried
clots
of
blood
.
But
it
was
hopeless
to
resist
those
eyes
.
This
was
apparently
a
dream
about
being
hypnotized
,
being
dominated
...
being
unable
to
change
things
,
perhaps
,
the
way
he
had
been
unable
to
change
the
fact
of
Pascow
's
death
.
You
could
go
to
school
for
twenty
years
and
you
still
could
n't
do
a
thing
when
they
brought
a
guy
in
who
had
been
rammed
into
a
tree
hard
enough
to
open
a
window
in
his
skull
.
They
might
as
well
have
called
a
plumber
,
a
rainmaker
,
or
the
Man
from
Glad
.
And
even
as
these
thoughts
passed
through
his
mind
,
he
was
drawn
forward
onto
the
path
.
He
followed
the
jogging
shorts
,
as
maroon
in
this
light
as
the
dried
blood
on
Pascow
's
face
.
He
did
n't
like
this
dream
.
Oh
God
,
not
at
all
.
It
was
too
real
.
The
cold
nubbles
in
the
rug
,
the
way
he
had
not
been
able
to
pass
through
the
shed
door
when
a
person
could
(
or
should
)
be
able
to
walk
through
doors
and
walls
in
any
self-respecting
dream
...
and
now
the
cool
brush
of
dew
on
his
bare
feet
,
and
the
feel
of
the
night
wind
,
just
a
breath
of
it
,
on
his
body
,
which
was
naked
except
for
his
Jockey
shorts
.
Once
under
the
trees
,
pine
needles
stuck
to
the
soles
of
his
feet
...
another
little
detail
that
was
just
a
bit
more
real
than
it
needed
to
be
.
Never
mind
.
Never
mind
.
I
am
home
in
my
own
bed
.
It
's
just
a
dream
,
no
matter
how
vivid
,
and
like
all
other
dreams
,
it
will
seem
ridiculous
in
the
morning
.
My
waking
mind
will
discover
its
inconsistencies
.
