Maxwell turned on the light and sat up in the bed, draping his legs over the side, his feet touching the cold floor. Sweat ran down his body and slicked his hair. He held his hands up and stared at the palsy that possessed him. He was breathing like he had run a foot race.

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It was a horrible dream. He had floated through the apartment, passing through walls as if they did not exist, all the while knowing a vast emptiness threatened to claim him.

He walked to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of whiskey from a cupboard.

Maybe he could drink the dream away.