It seemed to me that all this meant they were still here, somewhere in town. Perhaps not. They might have been taken away, but I would have felt that, I think. It just didn’t seem plausible, though, that they, while, if not full-sized, are certainly not small, and not especially robust either, I think, could be spirited out of town with any dispatch. I mean, it could be done, of course, but not quickly or discreetly. And where would you send them? Wouldn’t it make more sense to keep them here in town, out of sight, for a while?

— Did I take them?

I don’t remember taking them.

I live alone. It’s true I could have taken them, if I had known where they were.

But, of course, I didn’t know where they were. Where are they now? Did I take them and forget I’d done it?

It’s possible, but then knowing what is and isn’t possible is just a guessing game, and besides, what good does it do me to concern myself with that now? If I took them, then I would know where they are, and I don’t, do I?

They aren’t at home—a painstaking search proved that. I don’t know if I’ve taken them, but I... feel... as though I have. This feeling is intolerable. It’s an intolerable feeling! I can’t think or sleep or eat. I jump at every sound, can’t speak to anyone for fear I’ll blurt out an incoherent admission or worse, a stream of false language. It is necessary—absolutely necessary—to do something. They’re out there alone, somewhere, in someone’s hands—I imagine them being treated roughly, an arm breaking, and I can hear my own sharply indrawn breath, my shoulders rise, my throat stopping. I have to find them.

I was lying flat on my back, dreaming, of course, unable to move in the bed, and they were in the apartment with me, somewhere very near me, and I heard scraping on the floor, steadily nearer. The sheet beneath me was yanked and yanked again, not hard. I saw the tops of their heads. My head was flat on the mattress, fixed upright, but out of the corner of my left eye, I could see the tops of their heads. The bed dipped with their weight. Stiff, dry lips touched my exposed left calf, little hands gripped my leg feebly, and then teeth sank into the muscle. I screamed in agony. The jaws closed, tugged, tearing the muscle, the pain grew worse and became a sick horror. A shadow came between me and the ceiling. A hard, cold face nuzzled my chin upwards. Teeth cut into my throat. I couldn’t scream any more, I had woken up, alone, unharmed but unable to breathe.