He had often wondered about dreams. He could think of casual conversations that he had with friends or family in the past on the topic of dreams. Invariably they would relate how their dreams would be about people who were close to them or events that related to something that was actually happening in their lives. It might have been a dream about their sister at a wedding or some memorable event that happened on a vacation. Their dreams, although sometimes quirky, were more closely related to their reality, connected to some familiar person or event that they knew or had been involved with. His dreams though, seldom had little connection to reality or anything that had happened or was happening in his real life. He would readily admit that his dreams were spawned from some insane bizzaro world. His were something like a Chuck Barris "Gong Show" fornicated with a "Laugh In" episode production of his semi-conscience mind. He would often wake in the morning thinking, "Where the hell did that come from"? This night he had dreamt that he was walking down the corridors of a large building..something like a shopping mall. He was unabashedly singing "Unchained Melody" at the top of his voice, to the delight of passersby. He was enamored with the beautiful resonance of his voice. It was so peaceful, tranquil. He had ended up in a dimly lit shower room somewhat like he had remembered from high school. He walked past a young man who was sitting on a tiled bench that had been built into the shower wall. He knew him from school. The young man was chattering on about something that he couldn't understand. He walked farther into the back of the foggy shower room. Hot water and steam spit from stainless steel shower heads fastened to the tile walls. When he looked down, there were beautiful, emerald colored, smiling leopard frogs growing upwards from the shower room's tiled floor.

It was like one of those times that a person grogilly becomes awake, because the dream that they're experiencing is so unimaginable and wonderful that they would give obecience to the "dream gods" just to transport them back, and to keep them asleep, to keep their eyes closed, to keep them from becoming fully awake, so that they could continue to experience the wonderfulness of the dream. They fight awakeness, consciousness, because the dream is so beautiful, so peaceful.

He was awake now. There was no way that he could drift back through the veil and recapture his dream. He sat upright on the couch and rubbed his face and eyes with both of his hands. He chuckled to himself, "Must've been the Pabst". There was a full moon overhead and enough light, he thought, that you could play a softball game outside. He could clearly see Fireball laying in the tall grass beside the old Post Office building. He had always thought that such a large animal, like a horse, lying prostrate on the ground looked unnatural. He had learned a little bit about horses. They had evolved the ability to experience a type of sleep while standing up. They had what scientists called a "stay apparatus" that allows them to experience a "slow wave sleep" while standing. The same was true of elephants, bison and giraffes. In the distant past, a horse was a prey animal and the ability to "sleep" while standing up was a defense that would help them escape a predator. But a "paradoxical sleep" or deep sleep only happens when a horse is lying down. If a horse is deprived of this deep sleep, they'll become cranky and sluggish. He wondered what she might be dreaming about right now. He smiled and thought, most likely a bucket of tasty oats, a handful of sugar cubes and jingle bells.

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He reached for the grain sack that he had set on the floor. He took out the pint jar of corn relish that he had taken from Moses Stutzsman's basement and emptied it into one of the disposable bowls from the bar. He hadn't eaten much these last few days. The evening before, he had eaten some of the beer nuts and beef jerky. He had stuck the Slim Jims in the feed sack. He thought how wonderful a cup of hot black coffee would taste. He thought that maybe later he could find some. He had given his water to the Abettors so he cracked open one of the two remaining Pabst. Moses must have liked his corn relish a bit on the hot side. He speculated that Sarah had included a jalapeno or two in her recipe. He ate every last bit of the relish and was still hungy. He opened the quart jar of pickled beets and spooned out about half the jar into his bowl. They had a wonderful texture and taste. Sarah put in just the right amount of cloves and cinnamon.

He had laid the .45 on the coffee table the evening before. He picked it off the table, dropped the clip, thumbed the safety off and racked the round out of the chamber. He loaded the round back into the clip and then slapped it back into the pistol. Then he slipped the loop of twine over his head and tucked it back in his overalls. He felt it was more safe carrying this way. Not having a proper holster he didn't want to risk blowing his Johnson off. He stood up and stretched his legs. It was starting to break light now. He could see that behind the couch that he had slept on that there was a kitchen and dineing area. There was a stainless steel table and chairs straight out of the fifties that set in the middle of the room. The cushions were a lemon yellow color and the metal was chromed. All the appliances were Harvest Gold colored. There were two bottles of Red Trail Frontenac wine on the laminate countertop. He opened one of the upper cabinet doors and saw an unopened package of six chicken flavored Ramen noodles and a partial box of Little Debbie Oatmeal Creme Pies. He took the wine, noodles and all but two of the creme pies and put them in the feed sack and slung it over his shoulder. He cracked open the last can of Pabst and walked out the door pulling it shut behind him. Fireball had awakened and was contentedly foraging on some wild apples that had dropped from a tree on the vacant lot next door. He pulled apart the cellophane wrapper that contained a creme pie and at the crinkling sound she lifted her head and her ears snapped forward. He chuckled at her face as she gobbled up the sweet treat that he held out in his hand. He whispered, "Your lucky day girl. Oats and marshmallow creme!"

He worried constantly about his wife. Wondering where she was and if she was alright. In the few weeks since the "day" happened it had seemed like an inescapable nightmare. It had been all that he could do just to survive. She had surely given birth to their child by now. That is if she were still alive. He was determined that he would find her. Somehow he would get to her. "Old girl" he said, "We're going to Charbonneau".