In the dream Travis is walking down the street when a policeman taps him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir,” the policeman says.

Travis does a slow-mo Sam Peckenpah turn. “Yes,” he says.

The policeman says, “I don’t mean to bother you—but that large, scaly fellow over there munching on the mayor—do you know him?” The policeman points toward the demon, who is biting off the head of a man in a pinstriped polyester suit.

“Why, yes, I do,” Travis says. “That’s Catch, he’s a demon. He has to eat someone every couple of days or he gets cranky. I’ve known him for seventy years. I’ll vouch for his lack of character.”

The policeman, who has heard it all before, says, “There’s a city ordinance against eating an elected official without a permit. May I see your permit, please?”

“I’m sorry,” Travis says, “I don’t have a permit, but I’ll be glad to get one if you’ll tell me where to go.”

The cop sighs and begins writing on a ticket pad. “You can only get a permit from the mayor, and your friend seems to be finishing him off now. We don’t like strangers eating our mayor around here. I’m afraid I’ll have to cite you.”

Travis protests, “But if I get another ticket, they’ll cancel my insurance.” He always wondered about this part of the dream; he’d never carried insurance. The cop ignores him and continues to write out the ticket. Even in a dream, he is only doing his job.

Travis thought it terribly unfair that Catch even invaded his dreams. Sleep, at least, should provide some escape from the demon, who had been with him for seventy years, and would be with him forever unless he could find a way to send him back to hell.

For a man of ninety, Travis was remarkably well preserved. In fact, he did not appear to be much over twenty, his age when he had called up the demon. Dark with dark eyes and lean, Travis had sharp features that would have seemed evil if not for the constant look of confusion he wore, as if there were one answer that would make everything in life clear to him if he could only remember the question.

He had never bargained for the endless days on the road with the demon, trying to figure out how to stop the killing. Sometimes the demon ate daily, sometimes he would go for weeks without killing. Travis had never found a reason, a connection, or a pattern to it. Sometimes he could dissuade the demon from killing, sometimes he could only steer him toward certain victims. When he could, he had the demon eat pimps or pushers, those that humanity could do without. But other times he had to choose vagrants and vagabonds, those that would not be missed.