He went back into the house and went to bed. Martha tidied up the kitchen and joined him. They lay together in silence; then Leon spoke, softly.

“Tell me more about those dreams you have. About the yellow eyes.”

“I don’t have them since you’re here.”

“You mean ‘I haven’t had them since you’ve been here.’ ”

“I haven’t had them since you’ve been here.”

“Sometimes I dream about spiders.”

“Spiders? Spiders are nothing. They’re quiet, they just crawl around. These eyes have jaws that snap and growl and come at me.”

“Hmmm. Well, I’m glad you don’t have them anymore.”

“Me too.”

“Martha?” He looked at her face, silhouetted in profile against the faint starlight outside. “I can’t stay with you forever.”

“I know. I just wish.”

He turned his gaze back to the black expanse that would have been the ceiling if he could have seen it. “I know. I wish sometimes, too.”

“Well, we’ll just do till we don’t.”

He smiled. “Okay. But when I go, you’ll be all right?”

She was silent for a long time. Long enough for Leon to count his heartbeats in the quiet, long enough for him to think she had fallen asleep. When she finally spoke, it startled him. “I don’t know,” she said. “I think so.”

He put his arm under her head and snuggled his body close to hers. She felt him fall asleep, one muscle at a time, but she kept blinking to stay awake, suddenly afraid of the nightmare, the one dream that was as real to her as Leon was. Eventually, she drifted off, but her dreams had a presence, a lurking danger pacing the sidelines, ever present, always just out of sight. Even in her sleep, she wondered what it was, where it was, and if it would be with her always.

16

CHAPTER 16

Doc Pearson took the stethoscope out of his ears and hooked it around his neck. He motioned to Fern that she could dress Martha again, while he sat at his desk and made notes. This was a puzzler. The child had apparently suffered some major trauma, and had totally withdrawn. Only time would tell what kind of permanent damage had been done.

Fern sat in the chair next to the doctor’s desk and pulled Martha into her lap. The child looked straight ahead, rarely blinking, seemingly oblivious to the world around her.

“She’s perfectly healthy, Fern. I can find nothing wrong with her at all. Her reflexes are fine; her eyes look good. If it was something wrong with her brain, it would have come on slowly; there would have been symptoms. I think it’s been some kind of a shock, a trauma, but what would be so horrible as to induce this type of trance is beyond me. Does she eat?”

“When I feed her.”