Light from a streetlamp glinted through the curtains of his bedroom. He was lying on the floor, still wearing the same clothes he wore at Underground Atlanta. His head was throbbing. The ceiling and walls seemed to be spinning. A clammy film of sweat covered his face. His clothes were damp. It was the same old nightmare. The same ship that appeared in those dreams, the one that he could never explain. Same cobblestone street. Same gaslight. Connie Belasco’s face, or what was left of it, was contorted in unimaginable pain. Her large, dark eyes stared back at him in mute accusation. Jack lay there, looking out the window at the houses along his street. Through the parted curtains, he could see his neighbor asleep in an arm chair with a book on her lap. His eyes eventually drifted back to the streetlamp. Painful to look at. Maybe if he stared long enough, it would burn away the image of Connie, reduced to a limbless freak by a monster. Jack lifted his head and let it sink back down to the rug.
