Lett went back to his bungalow, just as Selfer ordered. He kept off his porch. He waited for instructions, as instructed. He hunkered down there with a bottle of Johnnie Walker, but it only made his head spin and his thoughts tumble around again. He tried coffee. That only made his body heat up and sweat and his thoughts collide and ricochet. He paced the bungalow. He looked out windows.

His dead friends appeared, one friend for each window, then it was all of them at every window he approached. There they stood like a group photo of a squad after taking a town. He yanked all the blinds shut, but now they sat on the bed, all piled on there like in the bed of a troop truck. They spoke to him, individually yet all at the same time; a grim chorus.

You need your dose again, Wendell. That’s what you need.

“I already got my dose,” Lett muttered, “he gave it to me.”

You need it again. You need to see Lansdale. He’s the key. His dose is the key, Tom Godfrey told him.

Then his kindred spirit appeared. Holger Frings. Lett had met the German deserter when he himself deserted, deep in the dark Ardennes. Frings had vowed to help Lett return to Heloise, whom he’d met on leave in Belgium. But American MPs spotted them—they fled but not before the MPs fired. Lett got a bullet in the back. Frings saved Lett’s life, and he then vanished. Lett had always held out hope Frings was still alive. But Frings was dead. Because only the dead spoke to him.

You must listen to them, Frings said in German. Listen to your good old friends.

Lett kicked at the bed. But he had to listen. He’d named his son after Holger and Tom.

Go find Lansdale, they told him. Go demand your dose.

“No!”

Trust us. Because the dose, it’s not what you think it is. Not even close.

Lett kept kicking, stomping. His friends left the bed. It was empty. He’d kicked it so hard the mattress hung off it. It was just him now.

I’ll take the damn thing myself. He found his musette bag with his dose. He pulled out the vial, but he fumbled it in his sweating fingers and the already loose rubber stopper popped off. Some of the clear liquid dripped onto the crook of his thumb and forefinger. He stared at the clear drops. He’d expected it to sting, turn color, something. He smelled the vial. He tried again, breathing deep. Nothing. He smelled his skin. Still nothing. He was tempted to lick it but recoiled instead. “What the hell?” he muttered, glaring around the room as if anyone else were there.

He kicked at the bed again. He pulled on his shoes and shot out the front door.

***