It was that late time of early, early morning, the lull before the new day, when a party is finishing and all the bottles have cigarettes floating in them, and only stragglers remain awake to share a drink.

Gunner and I sloshed through the aisles. The Doberman took a hard right turn and I lurched after him. “Try to find Twentieth Century,” I told him. Water everywhere was rising higher—it was above my shoes, lapping around my ankles—and I whispered to Gunner, “This is some serious flooding. There must be a clogged drain somewhere.”

The Doberman changed direction. He dragged me after him into a passageway that seemed, from what I could make out—which was not much with that spirit mask slipping, again and again, down my face—roomier, wider, better lit. We were almost free and I felt almost happy. I began to breathe more easily. I looked forward to the Corn King dance I would perform, and to the warming nightcap that would follow dancing. Dim light showed at the edges of my Corn King mask, and I could feel snowy wind blowing against my legs. It was only a short distance to freedom. The dog hurried to a trot.

I had forgotten all about my brothers who cruised these stacks in the late hours.

Now quite suddenly I heard men’s voices around me. As we entered this broad corridor, as we passed, the dog and I, through this main aisle, I heard the low, murmuring voices of brothers I could not see, though these men were, I could tell, standing close to me.

“Look, everyone, it’s the Corn King in his dark socks and his tree mask,” exclaimed one voice. And another complimented, “Sweet outfit, little brother. Are you in prehistoric drag?” I realized then that I was not wearing pants. It was insane, really thoughtless, to tour our stacks without pants. I made a show of waving the hypodermic needle blindly around, but this only made me feel pathetic. These men did not want to chase me. They did not want to kill the Corn King. I was safe here. Their voices whispered. One man promised to care for me, and not to hurt me; and for a brief instant I felt a hand touching my shoulder, gently, affectionately; and I cried, “What do you want?”

No reply. I commanded the dog to walk through the crowd. Men followed behind and the red library’s lights flickered ahead. Why was I so frightened of my brothers? Why so afraid of their low-pitched voices, of their touch and their acrid, peppery smells?