He explored the basement, walking twice past a sofa without seeing it; when he discovered it he sat upon it and the old rusty springs creaked. It was good to sit down this way, to relax upon something soft; he had not sat in a chair since the police had third-degreed him. He threw his legs upon the sofa and stretched out full length and rested his head in the crook of his arm and a mountain of fatigue weighed upon his eyes and forehead. He dozed but his imagination was alert. He saw himself rising and slowly mounting the basement steps and then opening a door and looking into a room filled with policemen. He jumped awake; he was still lying stretched on the sofa; he had not moved. He closed his eyes again and this time his anxious imagination made him feel that he was standing in a room watching over his own black, nude, waxen body lying stiff upon a white table. At the far end of the room a crowd of people huddled in a corner, fearful of his body. Though lying asleep upon the table, he stood at his side, warding the people off, guarding his body and laughing to himself as he observed the situation. They scared of me, he thought proudly. It was good that they were afraid of him, for their fear gave him respite and he drifted to sleep.

He awakened with a start, leaped to his feet, and stood at the center of the concrete floor staring, gasping. It was a full minute before he moved. He hovered between sleeping and waking, unprotected, a prey of wild fears. One part of him was asleep; his blood coursed slowly and his flesh was numb. On the other hand he was roused to a high pitch of tension; he lifted his fingers to his face and hysteria seethed in him.

Gradually he lowered his hands and struck a match. Yeah, he mumbled. How long had he slept? The question occurred to him in a vague kind of way. He did not see the green-papered walls; it was as though he was deaf and blind. He expected to see a door through which he could walk, but there was no door. He shook his head and remembered where he was. The match flame died and it was dark again. He struck still another match and saw steps leading upward; a strong gust of wind blew out the flame. He rose and mounted the steps and felt for the usual door, but could not reach it; he lifted his right foot to walk on up the steps and his shoe came down on a wooden floor with a resounding bang. He was terrified. Then he realized what had happened: The door was open and he had walked up the steps and through it and into a room and had stomped his foot on the floor, thinking that he was still mounting steps. Where was he? Should he strike another match? He felt in his pockets; he had only one left.