He stumbled, disoriented; grabbing the nearest piece of furniture to prop himself up. His vision was blurred, vasoline smeared on visors. And his memory was in the same state.

He dug into his pocket, his fingers mulling around. He found the item he sought: a pack of cigarettes. Pulling one smoke out, he was finally able to light it on only the third try.

One blundering footstep after another, he made his way to the doorway, then the hall. There was crying, wailing, like a banshee. Someone was in pain; and pain meant trouble. Instinctively, he followed the sound, the wall lending support to his frame.

There was something caught in his throat. He spat it out, a reddish phlem congealing on the carpet. He could hear a voice from the next room, so he forced his feet to continue.

Peering in, he saw a young man holding a bucket. No, a kid, the kid. “Si… Simon,” Blake said.

“Blake!” Simon shouted, running up and hugging him.

“Who were you talking to?” Blake asked.

Simon turned around, facing an empty room.