I stood on the rickety porch, clawing at the rail that would give me splinters if I held it any harder. I still smelled the tangy, earthy cooking that spewed out steam and smoke from the stovepipe, and the sun was sinking even as I stood there.

I steeled myself, prepared for the worst, and looked in the window again. There was a familiar shape—no, not the same one, but with a smaller, thinner back—hunched over a form lying prostrate on the bed; and instead of bare black feet thrashing against the mattress, the prone legs now occupying that space were clad in muddy tennis shoes not so different from my own.

So this was the shift the woods had signaled. I was back in the real world, if in fact I’d ever left it.

I reached for the door and pushed it with my fingertips. It bounced inward with a squeaky jolt. The man at the bed stopped what he was doing. In one of his hands I saw a thick twine rope dangling. He was not cutting the body on the bed, he was restraining it. I was so relieved I took a deep breath.

From the kneeling, skinny body came a familiar voice. “You came in time. I knew you would.” That voice was strong, and deep—it did not seem to match the wrinkled hands that held the rope. And I had heard it before, in my stranger dreams and lucid fears.

I started to reach backwards for my gun, but something made me reconsider. “Who are you? And what are you doing to . . . him?” Yeah, I did know those shoes. I knew those dirty jeans.

He laughed, low and mellow. “I’m not hurting him near so much as you did. Boy, but I knew I did right giving you the medicine. Of course, you’re mine anyhow. I knew you’d be tough. But this one, he’s the vessel. I won’t be harming him. I need him.” He spoke so smoothly, it was like being on drugs and listening to Barry White. Impossible for that voice to belong to those skinny arms, that bony back.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

I argued, but my protest was a lie and we both knew it. “No. I don’t.”

“You do. But you’re afraid. There’s no need for it. I’d not harm you any sooner than I’d harm him.” He twisted his neck just enough to see me with one brown eye, the whites gone yellow with age. “Naw, I’d not harm you none at all. You’re here to help me.”

“I’m . . . not. You’re crazy. I’m not going to help you.”