The blue woman, her mouth an open “O” but no sound coming out. Over her shoulder a crescent moon, old and tarnished. No…dipped in blood. Something else. Someone else…

My own yell of terror woke me. I found myself sitting bolt upright, my heart stuttering with fright and anger as I gulped in oxygen. I put my hands up to my face and they were shaking. I could see the white blur of them, and for some reason this alarmed me all the more.

I told myself to think of something else, but all I could think of was that Brett had been murdered, that someone had watched us and waited. And when I ran for help, that same someone had picked up a rock—

I pictured Brett lying there in the sand, helpless, thinking perhaps that rescue had come. I pictured this faceless person slipping silently through the shadows of my own home. I saw a gloved hand opening the cupboard and taking down my pills…

I don’t think it was a conscious decision, but somehow I was dialing Adam’s phone number.

The phone rang once. Twice. Picked up.

Adam’s voice was scratchy. He cleared it, repeated, “Yes?”

“It’s…me.”

“What’s wrong?” He sounded alert now.

I couldn’t answer. What the hell was I doing?

“Kyle?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to hear your voice.” I laughed. It didn’t come out quite right. Embarrassing. I admitted, “Bad dreams.”

“I’ll come over.”

My heart spread its wings like Drake Trent’s angel; ready for liftoff. I said reluctantly, “No. I’m okay now. It’s late.”

“I’m on my way.”

The phone clicked down before I could say all the things I should have. I rolled out of bed and went to the window. The light was on at Adam’s, a cheery glow. A minute later I saw the verandah spot come on, saw him briefly illuminated in the grainy light as he shrugged on a sweatshirt.

I went downstairs, not bothering to turn on the lamps. I knew this place in the dark, I knew it in my sleep. I unbolted the door and was waiting on the porch as Adam jogged up the stairs.

I began nervously, “I feel like a foo—” But he put his arms around me and I bit off the rest of it.

We hugged each other. I breathed in his sleepy scent; his unshaven cheek rubbed against mine. It was like coming home. Adam’s arms were strong, safe, like being held by my father, except I don’t remember ever being held by my father.

Seven minutes later I was back in my nest of pillows and blankets, cradling the mug of decades-old (though I didn’t like to break it to him) Ovaltine Adam had heated for me. He lay on the bed beside me, head propped on his hand, while I related my dream. To my relief he didn’t laugh at any of it: the furtive knock at the window, the blue woman, the moon that turns into a blood-spattered scythe.

“You know what it’s like, Adam? Did you ever see that painting by de Chirico? Melancholy and Mystery of a Street?”

“The one with the carnival wagon? The girl with the hoop running from the shadow?”

“Right. There’s something, I don’t know, sort of desolate about that painting.”

“Disquieting.”

“Yeah. That’s it. Of familiar things being…sinister.” I wasn’t explaining it well. The unconscious mind digests our experiences and translates them into dreams; that’s what I was trying to say.

Maybe Adam understood. He softly quoted de Chirico, “And what shall I love if not enigma?”