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and the walking, the dream light… He didn't care. Maybe I'm not dreaming . Maybe I'm dead . He knew he'd been hurt badly enough, by Aitch and Charlie. His fingers touched the side of his head, feeling for the place where the steel bar had struck, bearing him with its eclipsing weight down to the angle of his apartment's wall. Nothing; he took his hand away.
        He looked down to the nest of blankets on the floor. He half expected to see himself curled up there, his real body, the hurt one, the blood and life having slowly leaked away. But he wasn't there. He squeezed his fists again, feeling the blood coursing around the bones inside.
        This place was different, too. Its silence held him deep, the blue light an ocean pressing against him. He looked up from his hands and saw the curtains, not torn rotting stuff, but white gleaming rivers, billowing with the night wind sliding through the uncovered windows.
        He stepped over the blankets and looked out, the window glass cold against his fingertips. The black hills were etched with the blue light, the stars slowly turning behind them. The red specks of fire, the watching eyes, drifted with the other, blacker shapes ranged against the hills. He let go of the curtain, and its silky weightlessness flowed past his gaze.
        He turned back to the room. The walls receded, opening the space they enclosed to empty miles, He knew he could walk, hand reaching out, and in the motion of dreams never reach the far door that opened onto the columned entranceway. He was inside; he wasn't meant to leave. He knew that. Not until he'd been shown everything: the circular reception desk, with its mahogany panels buffed to dead mirrors, its marble top etched in silver and black-he rested his hands flat upon it, the stone the same chill temperature as his flesh-the rack of room keys behind it, the grid of mail slots for the guests; a switchboard, an antique, with its headpiece dangling from a hook, a curved black flower to speak into; the black cords snaked from one hole to another.
        That wasn't it. There was something else. The blue light lapped against his chest, drawing him as though it were an ebbing tide.
        A dining room. Tables with cloths draped to the floor, candles in silver holders. High-backed chairs. A grand piano beside a little stage at the far end. He stood in the wide doorway, his gaze searching across the empty space.
        He went back to the lobby and stood at the foot of the wide staircase that curved up to the next floor. The light spilled down the steps and pooled at his feet.
        His hand gripped the banister, just past the carved wooden post at the end, an eagle's claw holding a polished globe. He pulled himself onto the first step, looking upward at all the ones to follow.
         Dreaming … He told himself that again, as he took another step, his hand sliding along the smooth surface of the rail.
        A landing halfway up, with a window; he pressed his face close against the glass. Another section of hills circling in the distance outside the building. The red points were there as well, watching him, as if they had tracked his progress from the space below.
        The last step; he let go and stood in the middle of a hallway, with numbered doorways down either direction. A window, curtainless, at the far end; through it, he heard the distant sound of voices and laughter. He walked toward the sound.
        They were down there, the others. The window overlooked the gardens in front of the building, a white-gravelled drive circling through manicured lawns. The moonlight tinted everything white and blue, leaching away all other colors. The people down there moved in the pale light, touching one another, their voices sounding like crystal glasses breaking.
        The women laughed, a chime of small bells. Dressed in long gowns, with lace collars that clung to their throats like the petals of flowers. High-waisted