Bob woke to the sound of dripping on several occasions. Once he woke to the sound of someone leaving the room and a few minutes later returning. He dreamed of Bess touching him and awoke hard. Guilt overtook him, and sorrow. When he tried to replace the image of Bess with thoughts of Hillary, his body reacted by going flaccid, all adding to his confusion and disgust. He slept again only to awake from another dream. This time, he sawed timber, slept under trees, and sang. In each vignette the background reverberated with a continuous humming. Morning arrived much too suddenly. The door to the bunkhouse had been left open and the smell of rain-soaked wood and weeds poured into the room stirring the residents. Bob stretched his legs and felt for his sack, which lay beside him. A few men grumbled as they woke. One man shoved another who got too close. “No fightin’,” someone said in a gruff morning voice. Bob rolled his blanket while lying in his bunk. He packed his sack inside the blanket making sure he could reach in to grab money if what he had in his pockets wasn’t enough.
