my
advertisement. I never saw you--though you did call me, and your voice
sounds familiar. You sent me the check, and I mailed you the key. That
was all."

"But I must have given you references--told you something--"

Again, she shook her head. "Nothing. You said you were a teacher at
CCNY, but that you were quitting, and wanted a place to use as an
office. You didn't care what it was like. That's all."

Hawkes felt she was lying--but it could have been true. And in his
present state, he probably believed everyone was other than they
seemed. He remembered the gray sedan rising to the roof--and the cat
turning inside out--

Sickness hit at him. He groped back towards a chair, sinking into it.
He'd almost found a refuge, and even hoped that he could find some of
the missing past. Now....

He must have partially fainted. He heard vague sounds, and then she
was putting something against his lips. It was bitter and hot, though
it only remotely resembled coffee. He gulped it gratefully, not caring
that it was sweet and black. He saw the bottle of old coffee powder,
caked with age, and heard the water boiling on the stove. Idly, he
wondered whether he'd bought the jar originally or she had. Then his
senses snapped back.

"Thanks," he muttered thickly. He groped his way to his feet, his head
slowly clearing. "I guess I'd better go now."

She forced him back into the chair. "You're in no condition to leave
here, Will Hawkes. Ugh! Your shoes are filthy. Let me help you ...
there, isn't that better? Whatever you've been doing to yourself, you
should be ashamed. You're going straight to bed while I clean some of
this up!"

His head had sunk back on the table, and everything reached him
through a thick fog. It wasn't right--girls didn't act that way to
strange men who looked as if they'd come from a Bowery fight. Girls
didn't take a man's clothes off. Girls didn't....

He let her half carry him into the bedroom, and tried to protest as
she put him between clean sheets. He stared at the view of his
lavender shorts against the fresh whiteness, while things seemed far
away. He'd played with a girl named Ellen, once when he was eleven and
she was nine. She'd had bright copper hair, and her name had
been--what had it been? Not Ibanez. Bennett, that was it. Ellen
Bennett.

He must have said it aloud. She chuckled. "Of course, Will. Though I
never thought you'd be the same Will Hawkes. I knew it when I saw that
scar on your