She was dimly conscious of cars rolling by on the street below, the traffic lights at the corner winking red and green and red again, the yellow square of a lighted window in the house next door. But these things were dreamlike, superimposed on the film strip of memories that kept on unrolling.

Father. She had been dreaming about her father, and as always she felt shaky and sick with hate. I'd like to kill him, she thought coldly. Hit him till his face is all bashed in or cut his throat with a knife. He'd never hit us kids again. But he was dead, had been for years, she reminded herself firmly.

But Paul was lost.

She bent to pick up the bottle, fighting a wave of sickness. It was almost empty. She swallowed the last drops, gagging, and sat for a few minutes with the bottle dangling over the side of the bed. Then her hand relaxed and there was the thud of glass on the floor. Her mind sharpened with fear: the neighbors. But there was no knock on the wall. Kate lay down again and pulled the blanket up around her neck, feeling weak from alcohol and fatigue.

Now she could no longer tell the difference between sleep and wakefulness. The pattern of the wallpaper looked like row on row of leggy tan bugs. The late late program on somebody's TV followed her and she seemed to be climbing a ladder to a barn watching the slanted run rays, dust-drifting, through the small high window. Strains of rock and roll mixed with the stomping and whiffling of horses in the stalls.

Now it would happen. She sat tense in the foul-smelling indoor dusk, her heart banging. And woke again.

She struggled to a sitting position, lit another cigarette and threw the butt of the first at the ashtray, but it rolled under the bed. Hot ash dropped to the pillow. She managed to beat it out. Shouldn't smoke in bed; but geezus, you can't sit here doing nothing all night long.

The window pane turned gray, then pink. She sat upright, looking at the sky and holding back her nightmare, until her eyes dropped shut. Without warning, she was asleep.

Later the sound of her own crying woke her, as it had done so often before. She lay with her eyes closed, hearing the sound heavy and slow and hopeless in the quiet room. Somebody's sick. Or hurt. Then realization came. It's me, she thought fuzzily, and was alarmed. There seemed to be two of her again, but this time one lay in bed crying because her sleep was riddled with bad dreams and the other stood off to one side, hearing her cry but not able to do anything about it.

She tried to open her eyes, feeling them swollen and sore.

I wish I could die.

Maybe I'll die if I get sick enough. God, why can't I die?

Someone was banging on her door. She pulled the blanket over her head.