He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, gently, and stroked her hair. He held her close to him.

Then, someone laughed. He drew back, afraid, and forced himself to look at his hands. They clutched the lustrous hair. He touched the girl’s shoulder: a ribbon of flesh stripped away.

He screamed; again the laugh came; and he watched, watched while the rich black tresses began to fall from the girl’s head, while the soft white flesh melted and slid from the bones, until at last there was only a grotesque skeleton on the bed.

The laughter became hysterical now. He leaped up, walked quickly over to the glass door and wrenched it open. It gave onto a closet. Within, men and women, hanging from hooks, were laughing at him.

He begged them to be quiet.

He struck them, again and again, and demanded that they be quiet.

But they would not be quiet . . .

When he awoke, his mouth was dry and his head ached: a steady, rhythmically throbbing ache, at the temples. The morning heat lay still as mold in the airless room, hot sunlight piercing through the shades and through the closed windows.

Adam Cramer shook the dream away, waited for the hysterical laughter to recede, and remained quiet, unmoving, for almost twenty minutes. Then he went into the bathroom and swallowed four Empirin tablets. Cold water revived him. The headache dulled away to the usual small, inner pain he’d managed to adjust to over the years.

It was eight-thirty.

Although he was hungry and in need of coffee, he sat down at the table and uncapped the ballpoint pen. In a way, he supposed, writing to Max would become a nervous reaction, like prayer, for these letters were taking the form of duty; still, it was certainly true that Max deserved to know what was happening.

The “Max” came, as usual, with effort. For uncounted months the two of them had been close, but “Professor Blake” had always seemed proper. It was proper, he thought, then. I was a student. I’m no longer a student.

Dear Max:

Probably I ought to number these notes because probably they’ll arrive two or three at a time. Too much school has made me report conscious, or something. (Daddykins, rest his sweet moldering bones, always demanded reports. Never trusted me. Got so I couldn’t take a trip to the crapper without listing the number of tissues used. Really!) Anyway, bear with me, Max, I know I’m making you my diary.