He rolled over and raised up on one elbow, rubbing his eyes while he sniffed the drifting aroma of breakfast bacon. Sunlight, slanting through the window, touched the carved back of the sassafras chair, making the yellow wood gleam like gold. The chair seemed almost alive. In fact, it was actually glowing a little. Timor sat up and stared at it. Had he really talked to Wiley Pendergrass last night—or was it only a dream? If it had happened back in Malaya, he realized, he wouldn’t have questioned it. But this wasn’t Malaya. “Timmy!” Odessa called. “Aren’t you ever going to get up? Breakfast is ready.” “Coming,” he called back. He spun out of bed, swiftly drew on his clothes, and hurried to the bathroom to splash water on his face and comb his thick unruly hair. It couldn’t have been a dream, he told himself. I really saw him and talked to him—and he was sitting right there in the chair when Odessa entered the room … In the kitchen Odessa greeted him with a cheerful “Tabé,”
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