It was Stef who had convinced him that the way you banish the things you fear is to stand up to them. He had decided to stay finally, and it had been the right choice. He wasn’t afraid of the dream anymore. He knew it wasn’t going to happen, that he wasn’t going to kill Simon. Simon Lawrence and his incredible work at Fresh Start and Pass/Go was the future John Ross had chosen to embrace.

Ross stepped out of the elevator into the coffee room. The room was large but bare, save for a couple of multipurpose tables with folding chairs clustered about, the coffee machine and cups sitting on a cabinet filled with coffee-making materials, a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a set of old shelves containing an odd assortment of everyday china pieces, silverware, and glasses.

Ray Hapgood was sitting at one of the tables as Ross appeared, reading the Post-Intelligencer. “My man, John!” he greeted, glancing up. “How goes the speech-writing effort? We gonna make the Wiz sound like the Second Coming?”

Ross laughed. “He doesn’t need that kind of help from me. Most people already think he is the Second Coming.”

Hapgood chuckled and shook his head. Ray was the director of education at Pass/Go, a graduate of the University of Washington with an undergraduate degree in English literature and years of teaching experience in the Seattle public school system, where he had worked before coming to Simon. He was a tall, lean black man with short-cropped hair receding dramatically toward the crown of his head, his eyes bright and welcoming, his smile ready. He was a “black” man because that was what he called himself. None of that “African American” stuff for him. Black American was okay, but black was good enough. He had little time or patience for that political-correctness nonsense. What you called him wasn’t going to make any difference as to whether or not he liked you or were his friend. He was that kind of guy—blunt, open, hardworking, right to the point. Ross liked him a lot.

“Della sends you her love,” Ross said, tongue firmly in cheek, and moved over to the coffee machine. He would have preferred a latte, but that meant a two-block hike. He wasn’t up to it.

“Yeah, Della’s in love with me, sure enough,” Ray agreed solemnly. “Can’t blame the woman, can you?”

Ross shook his head, pouring himself a cup and stirring in a little cream. “But it isn’t right for you to string her along like you do. You have to fish or cut bait, Ray.”

“Fish or cut bait?” Ray stared at him. “What’s that, some sort of midwestern saying, something you Ohio homeboys tell each other?”

“Yep.” Ross moved over and sat down across from him, leaning the black staff against his chair. He took a sip. “What do you Seattle homeboys say?”

“We say, ‘Shit or get off the pot,’ but I expect that sort of talk offends your senses, so I don’t use it around you.” Ray shrugged and went back to his paper. After a minute, he said, “Damn, why do I bother reading this rag? It just depresses me.”