He shifted his weight and uncrossed his arms, then passed along the wall like a shadow until he stood before me. In his left hand he held the bottle. I’d not seen him pick it up, but when I looked over my shoulder at the candle, the medicine was missing. He held it out to me, label forward so I could read its command again.

“But—but that’s how I got into this mess,” I argued weakly. “I don’t want to drink anything else unless I can readily identify it.”

His right hand was on my throat.

Just like that. So quickly I didn’t have time to start, or scream, or fight. I tried to push against him but his body was like flesh-painted steel. Even with my feet against his pelvis and my nails digging into his forearm, he took no notice. I could not help but think that he was not really there at all, not in any way that I could fight him. I was in his world, one way or another, and at his mercy—if he had any.

His wrist shifted, providing me with the two options of letting him crush my windpipe or leaning my head back. I leaned back. He slipped two of his massive long fingers up around the joints of my jaw the way you force a cat to take a pill, and he poured the liquid down my gullet.

The last thing I remembered before waking was that it was not like the first brew. It was almost sweet and not half so bad, which didn’t make it good, but I didn’t gag on it, either.

“What are you doing to me with this stuff?” I gurgled as the room started to fold in upon itself.

I’m getting you ready for it. I’m making you strong.

8
In Search of Lost Time

I awakened alone in my own car, in the passenger side. Brilliant lights were shining down into my face, though it was clearly nighttime. 9:03, according to the dashboard clock. I blinked a dozen times and wiped at my eyes, then opened them enough to realize that my car was parked beside a gas pump, and that I was beneath the neon and fluorescent advertisements of a large truck stop. The dense, sharp stink of gasoline crept up my nostrils and made me dizzier still than I already was.

Harry’s face appeared at the driver’s-side window. He juggled with a bag and my keys, opened the door, and climbed in beside me.

“Doughnut? Or chips? Soda? I thought you might be hungry when you woke up.”

I stared stupidly at the bag, and at Harry. Food. Yum? “Give me a minute,” I mumbled, adjusting the seat belt to wear a new and less painful groove into my shoulder. At least he’d thought to strap me in. “Where are . . . how long have . . . what . . .?”