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sweat. I don’t know what happened after the three left. Maybe they found the Cowardly Lion, became a quartet, maybe not.
    Stay away from the Hanged Man.
    Even the memory of those words hurt.
    Talk to Stan.
    What was I involved in here? Were my dreams random subconscious processes? Talk to Stan? I didn’t even know his last name. Denise introduced him by first name. I only knew Denise’s—Fleming—because the apartment glued labels to the lobby mailboxes. When we met, we exchanged greetings and first names. Surnames never came into it because right from the start we were always personal.
    Hours remained until dawn. I left the apartment and hit Kroger. The big grocery on Carpenter stayed open all night—and its video selection included The Wizard of Oz .
    I wanted a copy because . . . because I wanted privacy. I’d need Denise soon enough to find Stan, if I gathered the courage necessary to broach the subject. The Hanged Man was a drug and I was a junkie. If I had my own copy, I might control the addiction. I’d first seen him with Denise and everything stemmed from that. I’d entered one of Silva’s infinite worlds; privacy might let me create a new perspective.
    The shadowed streets looked different than they did during the day. The late-night wind didn’t touch the trees. Each moved on its own, apple hoarders, ready for a rematch.
    “Just wait,” a voice rasped beside me. “It gets worse.”
    I shouted and slammed the brakes. My car swerved, shuddered to a halt, and stalled. I turned and found myself facing the Scarecrow.
    “What do you . . . what do you want?” I tried sounding angry, but my voice shook.
    My Scarecrow smiled and the maw formed by his mouth—old burlap, leather, and rotting hay—made my stomach turn. “I won’t hurt you, Michael.” He nodded toward the back. “But I can’t speak for her.”
    I twisted in my seat and craned to look. A shape huddled there, its outline weird and broken by too many angles. I fumbled to turn on the overhead dome light, but the person in the back actually cackled , and I leaped from the car and into the deserted street.
    I tripped before I’d gone half a dozen steps. Scrambling up, I looked over my shoulder, expecting pursuit—and saw nothing. The door was open and the dome light revealed the empty interior. The only sound was the chime that signaled the keys were still in the ignition.
    This isn’t happening, I told myself. The Scarecrow was in the passenger seat and the Witch—yes, the Witch—was in the back.
    A soft noise broke the breathless silence. I saw something slowly swinging in the tree shadows across the way. I knew the noise was a rope creaking under the strain of a dead man’s weight. I retreated to my car, more scared of what hid outside than of my elusive passengers.
    The residential speed limit was twenty-five. I did at least fifty and ran every red light getting home.
    Two hours more till dawn.
    I shredded the box wrap and popped the tape into my VCR. My head throbbed with too many ideas, as if I’d overdosed on coffee and Tylenol. I let it play and tried to clear my mind. I tried to tell myself there was no place like Oz. And this time the scene ran the same as I remembered it from my childhood.
    The Tin Man stumbled and landed on the tree stump. Dorothy and the Scarecrow ran over to help. The Wicked Witch made her threats, threw her fireball, bolted in a puff of smoke. The three adventurers danced off down the road.
    There wasn’t any sign of the Hanged Man.
    There was movement among the trees, but I could see it was a long-necked bird moving one of its wings. Was there something different on Denise’s tape? I didn’t consider myself gullible. Because I didn’t trust my eyes, I rewound the tape and played it again, cursing myself for doing that.
    The Tin Man collapsed on the tree stump. But he didn’t resemble Haley. His fingers and hat were burned, warped by some tremendous heat, even though the fireball lay moments in the