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spidery legs down his spine.
    But Dan shook the sudden involuntary reaction off as nothing more than the remnants of an overly detailed dream. His mind was still in some kind of nebulous state, unable to differentiate between reality and fantasy.
    He stood, pulled the covers back up to the pillows, and padded into the bathroom, where he shaved and showered. The hot water failed to relax him. His state of heightened awareness persisted. He had the feeling something grave was going to happen, something of such magnitude that it would forever change the way he looked at the world.
    Dan shut off the water and stood in the shower, naked and cold. The vent fan hummed quietly, sucking the moisture and warm air from the small room. The feeling of urgency that had gripped him while he sat on the bed, then stood under the stream of hot water, had only elevated. He had a powerful sense that he needed to do something and do it quickly. Resting his forehead against the tiled wall, he drew in a series of deep breaths, trying to calm himself, settle his blood pressure, relax his muscles. But it was a futile attempt and served only to increase his tension and restlessness.
    When the steam had cleared from the bathroom mirror, Dan stepped out of the shower and stared at himself, studied his face. He had his father’s sharp nose and smallish chin; his mother’s heavy eyelids and broad forehead. His was not the face of someone afflicted with insanity, but one never knew, did they? If he was aware of his own insanity, then he couldn’t really be insane. Crazy people didn’t know they were crazy. They saw themselves as perfectly balanced, having all their marbles in the right place.
    Maybe the stress of his job and the encounter with Erin had triggered some psychosis, some deep-seated paranoia that had long ago planted itself in his psyche when his father had been taken from them, so suddenly and unexpectedly that Dan never had the chance to say good-bye, to tell his dad he was loved, appreciated. That had been a lot for a twelve-year-old to absorb and deal with and he wasn’t sure the process had ever completed itself. Maybe now it was rearing its head as this irrational fear.
    With the towel wrapped around his waist, Dan walked back into the bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled out a solid gray button-down shirt and a pair of khaki slacks. He didn’t know how long he’d stood in the bathroom, gazing at his face in the mirror, how long he’d studied the lines, the creases, the blemishes, trying to find some assurance that he was indeed still holding a full deck of cards. Turning, he glanced at the clock.
    His pants slipped from his hand and dropped to the floor. It read 6:37. He was sure he’d set the alarm for seven. It was the same every morning and he never changed it, not even on weekends. Dan was not only low maintenance, but he was a creature of habit. Sue might have changed it to six, but that meant he’d just spent thirty-seven minutes in the bathroom. He doubted that.
    He stood there dumbly watching the clock as if expecting it to suddenly speak and explain itself and its unexpected reading. The minute digit changed but did not advance to thirty-eight. Rather, the clock now read 6:36.
    It was counting backward.
    A chill blew up Dan’s back, over his shoulders, and down his arms. He crossed the room to the bedside table and picked up his watch. It too showed the unexplainable time.
    Dan sat on the bed and watched the clock, hoping beyond hope that what he’d seen had a simple explanation, maybe a brain blink, his mind tricking his eyes. He waited, his palms going wet with sweat and his breath shallow and quick. A minute passed and the clock changed again. 6:35.
    Thomas Constant’s voice was in Dan’s head then: “Very well . . . but you’ll only have seven hours. Remember that. Time is a respecter of no one. Seven hours.”
    The clock was ticking away his seven