It was understandable enough – she’d had a bad week, (had, in fact, been going through a hell of a rough patch recently). She wasn’t sleeping well, her dreams realms of horror and pestilent, rotting death; tearing her down to hell every time that she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. In her nightmares, she saw his face. The face of Eddie Garcia, although in those dark and rancid dreams it was different, a ghastly death mask of decomposing corruption. In her nightmares, Dawn is in the kitchen. She’s making breakfast for her daughter Vickie and herself, frying bacon, when the sound comes from the garden: She notices that every other sound has become but echoes, distant and hollow as if retreating as that one sound, the music that consumed her with dread when Eddie Garcia was alive, once again, impossibly, pours in through the open kitchen window. She often thought (more in waking and recalling the dream than experiencing it) that it reminded her of a cowboy western movie.
