16

           Somethingwokehimmuchlater,acrashloudenoughtocausehimtositupinbed,wonderingifElliehadfallenontothefloororifmaybeGage’scribhadcollapsed.Thenthemoonsailedoutfrombehindacloud,floodingtheroomwithcoldwhitelight,andhesawVictorPascowstandinginthedoorway.ThecrashhadbeenPascowthrowingopenthedoor.

           Hestoodtherewithhisheadbashedinbehindthelefttemple.ThebloodhaddriedonhisfaceinmaroonstripeslikeIndianwarpaint.Hiscollarbonejuttedwhitely.Hewasgrinning.

           "Comeon,Doctor,"Pascowsaid."Wegotplacestogo."

           Louislookedaround.Hiswifewasavaguehumpunderheryellowcomforter,sleepingdeeply.HelookedbackatPascow,whowasdeadbutsomehownotdead.YetLouisfeltnofear.Herealizedwhyalmostatonce.

           It’sadream,hethought,anditwasonlyinhisreliefthatherealizedhehadbeenfrightenedafterall.Thedeaddonotreturn;itisphysiologicallyimpossible.ThisyoungmanisinanautopsydrawerinBangorwiththepathologist’stattooaY-cutstitchedbackuponhim.Thepathologistprobablytossedhisbrainintohischestcavityaftertakingatissuesampleandfilleduptheskullcavitywithbrownpapertopreventleakingsimplerthantryingtofitthebrainbackintotheskulllikeajigsawpieceintoapuzzle.

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