“Excuse me,” Moreland murmured absently. “A touch indisposed . . . something I ate . . .” He was already shambling across the room, bumping against chairs. The door opened onto a luxurious sitting room. Ellison watched Moreland’s ink blue back receding, saw the bathroom door on the far side open and close.

Indisposed, Ellison thought. That happened. He pictured Moreland huddled on the cold tiles of the bathroom floor; those tiles would be so white, so gleaming. It was hard not to feel envious.

Dimly he heard the water running.

Dimly he heard the presence of air, the outrageous splendor of electricity passing through the wires, the soft kittenish meows of the woman in the burgundy suit. The young man with the sky blue tie was embracing her from behind, his face nuzzling hard against her shoulder.

The water was still running. Maybe, Ellison thought, the water had been running for a long time. Wasn’t there some reason why you shouldn’t leave the tap open like that? Maybe someone should go and turn it off.

Maybe . . . The gray man in beige jumped up and let out a warbling scream. That seemed uncalled for. “My God! People, snap out of it!” Then the gray man was bolting through the door and across the sitting room; Ellison heard a lamp topple and smash.

He was running, too. Something was very wrong. Something in the bathroom. He reached the bathroom door a fraction of a second behind the gray man, who was banging it wildly with both fists. Ellison felt himself pull the man away, but his own movements seemed floaty and sluggish, as if he were suspended in a cloud of feathers. He barely felt his own steps on the floor as he jumped back to get a running start, kicking the door as hard as he could. The wooden door frame split, and the door smashed open.