She shook her head.
“A little place. Off the highway. About half way along. We drove all night. At least, Bill did.”
“It was a good thing I was along,” Bill purred.
Barbara turned her gaze on Verne. She had not realized he was so untidy. His tie was gone and his shirt was unbuttoned at the top. He had not shaved. His skin was dirty and splotched. There were countless little stiff hairs pushing through the skin of his jowls and neck. A green spot of color showed from his coat pocket. His tie. He had put it there.
“I guess you don’t feel well either,” she said.
“I’ll live.”
“Who wants more coffee, before we go?” Bill said. “Refills are free here, according to the menu.”
The last of his words blurred off. Darkness and fatigue rolled over her.
The room faded away.
They were walking across a lawn. Everything was dim. Indistinct. She could scarcely see. Verne was holding onto her arm. He was saying, don’t trip.
A man loomed up out of the gloom. There was a building of some kind. The man said, right here. If you will, please.
She was reading something. Was it a telephone book? No, she was not reading it. She was holding it in her hands. The book was heavy. It began to slip away from her, faster and faster. Someone steadied it. Her hand was being moved, guided.
The woman was saying to her, and if you don’t see what you need come over to the office and ask.
Verne and the woman went off. She was sitting down, waiting. Where had Bill gone? She tried speaking his name experimentally, but nothing happened. Everything was silent around her. Silent and unmoving.
She was on her feet. It was light only in some places; all the light was concentrated into tiny knobs. And between there was only darkness.
The darkness moved up and down. The lights were drifting past her, flowing back away from her.
Then it was light all around. And warm. There was warmth for the first time; she sucked it greedily in. The warmth and light were bringing her to life. She was coming back into existence again, faster and faster. Her insides churned; she was belching.
She stopped herself, putting her hands over her face. Presently she took her hands away, peering out.
Verne was sitting on a bed. On the floor beside him was a suitcase. The suitcase was open. Its contents were shirts and socks, ties. Things wrapped up. Verne was leaning over, doing something on the floor.
She blinked. There were newspapers on the floor around his feet. He was shining his shoes. His hands moved slowly back and forth. Right, left, right, left. He had a brush.
Suddenly he looked up at her. “Hello. How do you feel?”
“Not very well.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.” Presently she said: “Maybe some water.”
He got up off the bed and padded out of the room. She heard water running. A moment later he came back with a plastic cup. Through the door she saw a small bath room with a shower and washbowl. There were little green soap squares wrapped up on the washbowl.
She took the water. “Where are we?”
“Almost in New York. A little town outside the city. We didn’t quite make it.”
“Where’s Bill?”
“We left him off, fifty miles back. He lives up that way.”
“Oh.” She was silent.
He touched her arm. “Are you all right?”
“I’m better. Is my purse here?”
He found it for her. She fumbled in it and found a bottle of aspirin. After she had taken two tablets she felt a little better.
“How about Penny and Felix?” she said. “Do they know where I am?”
“They know you went with us. We told them. Don’t you remember?”
“No. I— I can’t remember a lot of things.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, there’s a few things I don’t remember either.”
She smiled wryly. After a while she got up and walked about the room. In one corner on a wood table was a radio with a coin slot and a plunger. “Twenty-five cents for an hour’s listening,” a sticker read.
She looked out the window. It was dark. She could see a concrete ledge; beyond the ledge were lights. They seemed to be far away.
“Are we up high?”
“Third floor. That’s some sort of a town. A little place. I’ve been here once before, but I don’t remember much about it. It was a long time ago.”
One door led into the bathroom. She examined the other door. It had a latch on it; it led out into the hall. She did not feel so confused, now. Her head was beginning to clear. Except for the nausea she was almost all right. She touched her skirt; it was wrinkled and dirty. Stained. Suddenly she thought about her things.
“My clothes! They’re—they’re still back at Castle?”
“Penny said she’d have them shipped to Boston for you.”
Barbara nodded. She watched Verne. He was sitting on the bed again. He had finished polishing his shoes and had put them off in the corner. He wiggled his toes; he had on bright red socks.
“What time is it?”
Verne examined his watch. “After midnight.”
“Midnight—twenty-four hours.”
“Yes. We did a lot of things. What do you remember?”
She rubbed her head. “Not very much.”
She felt cold suddenly. She stared around at the room, at Verne sitting on the bed. He shifted uncomfortably. He had taken off his shirt and was sitting in his trousers and undershirt. His shoulders were narrow and small.
She gasped. She was dazed.
“What’s wrong?” Verne murmured.
“We’re—we’re both staying here? Together?”
“That’s the general idea.” He laughed nervously. “It’s not so serious. People do it every day.”
She said nothing.
“Don’t look at me that way!”
She closed her eyes. Her heart began to pound loudly. As if it were trying to talk. She moved away from Verne, over toward the window again.
Outside she could see the tiny lights, so far off, lost in the immense darkness of night. Were they really lights of some small town, as he had said? Or were they something else? Stars, perhaps. But they did not wink.
She turned around. Verne was watching her intently. He was so small and thin, sitting on the bed in his undershirt She had not felt afraid before, but now she was beginning to become frightened. Verne’s face was anxious. Suddenly she realized— He was terrified. He was afraid she was going to leave.
In spite of herself she smiled. She walked back toward the bed. Verne seemed to draw away from her.
“Well,” she murmured.
“How do you mean that?”
“I don’t know. Everything seems to be happening so fast. I have to get used to it”
He said nothing.
“I’m still a little afraid,” she said presently. “But not as much as before.”
“Afraid of me?”
“No. I don’t know. I’m confused. I can’t remember... I’ve forgotten so many things. I still feel sick. Did I do anything—anything silly? Dumb?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.” Verne pulled himself up. “In fact, we didn’t realize you were—that you had been affected so much until this morning in the diner. Do you remember that?”
She nodded.
“You were sick in the car. You had sort of gone to sleep. Passed out. We couldn’t tell very much. You came around pretty groggy.”
“I remember.”
“That’s about all.”
Barbara sat down on the edge of the bed. “Verne, I—” He reached for her hand but she pulled it quickly away. “Verne, I think I told you I was twenty-four. I’m not. I’m only twenty.”
His eyebrow lifted. He gazed at her, his face round and owlish, his lips twitching.
“That makes a difference, doesn’t it?”