You pushed me, she says, as though she can read his thoughts. Then, she plunges the blade of the penknife into the soft part at the back of his head, and the pain explodes like a grenade.

With the pain, clarity returns. He stops struggling and lies still. This is not real, he thinks. You’re not real. It’s all in my head.

Dora stops what she’s doing. For a moment she seems unsure. Then she glances to her right, and Constance is there, floating beside them, her bottom half a fish, top half human. The man tries to say, This isn’t fair, because now there are two of them, and he still can’t move. You’re just a dream, both of you, he thinks. Then he sees that behind Constance is an old woman, and next to the old woman, though it takes him a while to place him, is the man whose name he took. Now this is getting ridiculous, he thinks. Both Gregor and the old woman are laughing at him. I don’t see why you’re laughing, he thinks. I killed you.

It’s because we know what’s coming next, says the old woman. And I don’t think you’re going to like it very much.

Constance comes near.

What are you? she asks. You’re not a man. You took my skin. You kept it.

You’re not real, he tries to scream. None of you are real.

Dora’s still crouching above him, her hand on the knife sticking out of his wound. Her lip curls, like a shrug. Real is relative, she says, twisting the knife, and the pain he feels is real, excruciating. The last thing he sees before he blacks out is Constance, swimming away into the distance, to the sound of Dora, Gregor, and Gregor’s mother laughing.

He awakes into darkness, remembering where he is, that he’s in a car and he needs to get out before anyone sees him there. His head throbs violently, and when he reaches up to feel it, he realizes he has been resting his head on the seat-belt connector. He must have jerked his head in his sleep, and that is what has stabbed him. Dora, you crazy little hallucination, he thinks, smiling bitterly. But still, his pulse races with the memory of the vicious apparitions, and he can’t shake off the uneasy feeling for some time.

The woman at the hotel crosses her arms. “I’m sorry,” she says, “We have no one of that description staying here, I’m afraid.”

“Look,” says the man, “I know she might have told you not to let me know where she is, but I’m her husband. It was just a little fight, honestly. I only want to talk to her.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about.”