THREE

 

Egon awoke with a soft cry.

As his eyes snapped open, he found to his surprise that he was not in his bed, but standing beside his closet door. His hand was stretched out over the knob, enveloping but not quite touching the golden sphere. An eerie sense stole over him, one that was equal parts deja vu and disorientation all at once.

To expel it, he shook his head and snorted violently. “Wonderful,” he said to the darkness, wiping away the thin, clammy sheen of sweat from his forehead. “Now I’m sleepwalking.” Egon walked back to his bed and sat dawn. His hand darted over to the bedside table, snatched his glasses from it and slipped them into their accustomed place. He peered into the darkness and tried to calm himself.

Again. Despite his best efforts to exhaust himself, the dream had returned, more powerful and compelling than ever.

While he had appreciated the others’ concern, he’d managed to either deflect the questions about his health into other areas of conversation or give curt, blanket assurances that all was well. His strategy had seemed to work, for no one brought the subject up more than once; staying with Janine on the dance floor as much as possible had also been a good idea.

But the dream had come again, stronger and more insistent this time—almost desperate. Things were coming to the point where Egon was less able to dismiss it as a reaction to stress. Something odd was going on, something he could not quite get a grasp on.

Egon shivered in the cool darkness of his bedroom; his throat suddenly felt as though someone had been stuffing cotton down it. He reached over to the nightstand again and snared the glass of water sitting upon it. Ignoring the slight tremor to his hand, he lifted the glass up and greedily downed in one long gulp.

He needed help. But who could he turn to? Who would listen and believe?

Janine   would, of course, but the dream might be reflecting upon deeper implications regarding their relationship‑or possibly, his past.

But there was one person that he could always rely upon. One person he trusted above all others.

With a sigh he reached over to the bedside table once more and brought the telephone over. Resting it in his lap, he lifted the receiver to his ear and dialed a long‑familiar number. The phone rang once, twice, three times, then clicked from the other end. “Hello?” a sleepy, feminine voice mumbled.

“Uhhhh ... Sheila?”

“Egon? Wazzamatter? You okay?”

“Is, umm, Ray there?” He could feel the blush creeping across his face.

“Oh. Yeah. Hang on.” There was a distant thud, a pair of soft voices in sleepy conversation, then Ray’s perpetually cheery voice came on line. “Egon? What’s up?”

“Ray ... I need to talk to you. I think I have a problem.”

“Well ... sure, Egon. You want me to come over now?”

Good old reliable Ray. A truer friend could never be found. “No, I don’t think that’s necessary. But perhaps we could meet at Federico’s for lunch? Janine’s going to be in conference all day, and I don’t really want to trouble her about this yet.”

“Okay. Would eleven‑thirty be all right? I’ve got a lecture at ten.”

“Eleven‑thirty would be fine. And Ray...”

“I won’t forget those parts, Egon. Good night.”

“Good night, Ray.” He hung up the phone and placed it back on the nightstand, then lay back down and tried to force his exhausted body back to sleep.

And a few minutes later, the soft aura that seeped from the bottom of his closet door faded from view.