There was only one of them left. It was about thirty yards behind me, patrolling the area in front of the bar where I had gone to ground.
It didn't appear to notice me at first.
I had time to register a couple of extraneous facts. First, the sun had passed its zenith and was now noticeably lower in the sky. Time flies when you're having fun . . .
And J.D. had poked his head through the outer wall of the bar. His mouth was open. "Run!" he screamed. "It's behind you!"
Now the creature was aware of my presence. Thanks, Kid.
It was clear to both of us that our act was still splitsville for the time being. "If we get separated," he yelled, "I'll meet you back at your new digs!"
"No!" I yelled back. "Get back to the house in Louisiana! Lupé's in trouble!" The last was said over my shoulder as I turned to flee: Ezekiel's Wheel had started to roll.
I did a little Lee Majors, Six Million Dollar Mojo sprint and dived back into the asphalt. Instead of slicing into darkness I skimmed along its surface like a Slip 'N Slide from Wham-o. The astral cord had taken up the slack as I moved. I was still exposed.
I jumped to my feet and saw that the Thresher had closed the distance from thirty yards to thirty feet. I turned and headed for the curb knowing that there was no way I could reach shelter in time.
As terrifying as this thing was, there was a touch of ignominy in being destroyed by something that bore more than a passing resemblance to the Looney Tunes Tasmanian Devil in full spin mode. In my final moments I had to ask myself: What would Bugs Bunny do?
Perhaps I should have asked what Wile E. Coyote would do: as I crossed the center line a bus smashed through me, multiple passengers crowding the last thoughts in my head with snippets of their own.
Fortunately, there was still room for one very important thought of my own!
Solid! I thought furiously: Very solid bus!
And I was on my way uptown, kneeling on a seat and staring out the rear window where the Thresher churned over my point of departure with impotent fury. "Oh man," I said, when I felt like I could finally breathe again, "this sure beats the hell out of traveling through the sewers."
The Thresher followed after the bus, bumping up against the rear a couple of times but, true to The Kid's theories, these things seemed to be strictly outdoor operators. The bus appeared to be as good as a Sherman tank in the ectoplasmic realm.
I eventually turned around and sat more comfortably. I was sharing a seat with a man in his late thirties or early forties wearing oversized Ray-Bans. Snuggled up at his feet was a German shepherd wearing a harness with a specialized grip: a seeing-eye dog. The seeing-eye dog was staring up at me like he was seeing me pretty well.
"Nice doggy," I said.
The nice doggy growled softly.
"Max?" the blind man inquired, "What's wrong?"
No point in ruining anyone else's day. I got up and climbed over several seats till I found one that was totally empty. I might've tried just walking through the seats but I wasn't sure enough of my control and didn't want to end up falling out the bottom of the bus altogether.
Now that I had time to catch my breath (such as it was) my thoughts returned to Lupé. The whole issue of her pregnancy and the positions of clans and enclaves was suddenly secondary. The demon Camazotz had come to my home looking for me. What horrors would be visited upon those it found there? Would my beloved escape? Could any of them survive?
There was no question of any of them being able to stop such a thing. So what would it do when it didn't find me there? Would it take prisoners to gain information? Torture them to learn where I had gone?
What could I do?
Even if I could return right now?
The Kid had died in that house but his ghost had traveled to New York by using me as a focal point—a personal haunting, if you will. That was how he was on hand to meet me when I "died." Or got knocked out of my body, at any rate. I didn't know how or how long it would take him to get back to Louisiana.
Or what he could do to help, either.
Meanwhile, I was just riding a bus around Manhattan.
Or not.
The bus turned a corner and I remained behind, the tension in the silver cord making course deviations a rather limited variable.
The Thresher had fallen back in its pursuit or it would have had me right then and there. That was the good news.
The bad news was that it had been joined by another. I scrambled for the curb and this time I made it. And there was enough slack to dodge into the building proper.
The floors were a green-and-white marble polished to a high sheen with alternating columns of green and white every hundred feet or so, soaring to a second-story ceiling of white, scalloped domes. It took a few moments to figure out that I had actually stumbled into a "store."
Excepting the grand columns, the space was cavernous; the counters of jewelry or unguents and parfums and scarves and belts and accessories but small, lonely islands in a vast ocean of marbled openness. Around the vast perimeter were the cycled stations of fashion: garments for the morning, outfits for midday, ensembles for afternoon, gowns for evening, apparel for night—elegant ladies' clothing for all points of the clock and compass.
The Threshers might be shut out but there were other invaders.
Zombies had breached the doors, spilled into the lobby, fanned across the mezzanine, shambled to the counters, and lay siege to the salesgirls who struggled valiantly to face the ancient forces that confronted them!
I blinked.
No. Not zombies. At least not like Boo and Cam and Preacher. These ladies were still alive—though the thick layer of makeup troweled over ancient flesh made it hard to tell at first. The hair that refracted unnatural bands of color from the light spectrum still grew from their scalps. Their lips and nails had been dipped in dye, not blood or entrails, to achieve the presumably desired effect. They were old and rich. The young couldn't afford to shop in a store whose inventory equaled the GNP of a small Mediterranean country.
This place catered to those who could afford a scarf that cost what most women earned for two months and overtime. It offered dresses that the owners would only wear once even though a lifetime at minimum wage wouldn't be sufficient to pay the freight.
Don't get me started on the shoes.
As the matrons performed the shuffling dance of commerce and consumption, I saw each joined by a veritable entourage of fashionistas, style mavens, and clothes fetishists who practically fell all over each other as dresses were considered, footwear slipped on and off, scarves draped, belts slung, and accessories compiled and recombined. What am I saying? They not only fell all over each other, they fell through each other. Like Merve and the bar spirits, the store was infested by the lingering aftertaste of fashion's hunger. The Apostles Matthew and Luke made it sound pretty bland when they said: "where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." They should have said: "where your heart is, is where you're trapped when your time runs out."
In other words, what matters most to you is the cheese on the mousetrap of eternity.
Nice. The Gospel according to Stephen King.
I wondered where my heart would turn up on the Post-Apocalyptic-Alley-Alley-Oxen-Free-O-All-Souls Tour . . .
For such a big, empty store it was a very crowded space. Like a kaleidoscope of reflected wheels and patterns, each living soul participated in the allemande-left and the do-se-do of shopping while their ghostly compatriots orbited them like phantom solar systems on crack. And, after a time, I could make out third parties in the grand farandole across the great marbled floor.
Creatures that were human and yet weren't, ghostly yet not dead, circled the outer edges of the dance and held out their arms. In their clear and shining grasps they held gowns and dresses that gave off a light of their very own. Fabrics that were not of this world shimmered in subtle patterns that flickered like heat lightning, shimmered like trout in shallow mountain streams, pulsed like quasars deep in the Orion nebula, and shone like the stars at the world's first birthday. They made gowns of silk and satin look like scorched burlap and each promised sensations of power and peace and healing and grace. Nothing hideous could wear such a garment and not be beautiful, nothing lame could don such material and not dance, nothing small could be adorned with such and not become large, anything was possible in these robes of light.
But the dance did not cease. No one hesitated. All eyes were on the sacks of silkworm spittle or bags of cotton pulp or tubes of reprocessed hydrocarbons. No one glanced at the raiment woven from sunbeams and early morning mists, apparel spangled with fireflies and glowing eyes of the Dwellers of the Deep, or the robes that pulsed like the long, slow heartbeat of the volcanoes. Vestments of light were offered and ignored. The blindness of the living continued in death. It was a Maypole dance around a tower of rotting wood while crystalline galaxies spun just outside the mud-trampled circle.
There was something . . . a mantle . . . a djellaba, a hooded serape, or something of spun moonlight, pleated with the aurora borealis. It came toward me, proffered in alabaster hands and I touched its hem briefly.
How can I describe the sensation of that contact? Not in terms of tactility or texture. It was not a question of thread count or weave—though the garment was more real than anything that ever touched my skin when I still walked the earth clothed in flesh. It was more like the smell of soft summer rains and early morning mists. The taste of fresh summer strawberries and icy-cold spring water on a hot summer's day. It was the sound of wind in the trees—a whisper amid a small orchard and a mighty exhalation through a great forest, the chimes of children's voices as the last lesson book is closed, and the peaceful song of the hearth cricket on a warm winter's night. But, more than anything else, it was the feeling of home—home for the hunter weary from the hill, for the sailor worn from the sea.
For me . . .
"For me?" I asked. And the clothing of eternity began to gather into my hands.
FLASH!
And I was stumbling out into the street, again.
No.
The shock of disappointment was greater than the shock of sudden translocation.
"Noooo!" I cried, and tried to claw my way back toward the green-and-white marbled crossroads.
The cord brought me up short.
And, a block away, a trio of Threshers rotated on their multiple axes and began to roll and spin toward me.
For maybe two hours I played Dodgem in traffic with the ghost grinders. I moved mechanically, only half caring about some of the chances I took. I was getting better at jumping from one vehicle to another, despite the unpredictable bungee contractions of my astral connection. To be fair, the spinning tops-o'-doom were having more difficulty as the sun inched its way down the western sky. Maybe they were solar powered: they seemed to lose steam as they crossed the shadows from the taller buildings, shadows that lengthened and grew more potent as the daylight waned.
As for my vehicular assistance, there were taxis and cop cars and delivery trucks and automobiles and limousines and even a fire truck. Now and then I'd jump out and run into a building, sometimes emerging two blocks down after a lengthy tour of stores, banks, and offices. There was a church along the way with a christening. The baby was surrounded by family and the family was surrounded by—well—it was difficult to tell, especially since the older ones were less distinct, but I was guessing more family with ancestors going back seven generations, at least.
And there were other . . . people. I hesitate to call them "creatures" but they were and weren't like you or me.
And they floated. Not that everyone's feet were firmly planted on the floor—or that everyone's feet were even visible at times—but these beings hovered over the whole assemblage like traffic copters preparing reports for the five o'clock news.
The feeling was different from most of the other haunty scenes I had visited so far: a sense of peace, of hope, even. But hanging around was out of the question as another strong yank landed me outside, again.
No Threshers in sight for the moment. I had emerged some distance from my entry point, the sun was lower in the sky, and I was walking into deeper shadows from the buildings across the street, now. I decided to risk staying outside for a block or two in hopes of finding a street sign to get my bearings.
I watched both ends of the boulevard, figuring the Threshers couldn't pass through any of the buildings and would have to remain in the light as much as possible. So I wasn't paying any attention to a dark alleyway and that is why the thing caught me by surprise as it barreled out and into me like a deranged cave bear.
It looked like a rabid grizzly. Matted, coarse brown hair, snaggly teeth, red-rimmed eyes; it staggered erect and advanced like some trained circus bear, paws waving before it, grunting and chuffing and growling. "Lil buddy!" it roared, spreading its massive arms for a crushing bear hug.
There were other people on the sidewalk. Without giving the creature any particular amount of attention, they gave it wide berth. New Yorkers are well acquainted with such phenomena: street people are like intermittent showers—you open your umbrella and keep walking.
"How long's it been?" the bushy-bearded giant bellowed. "I thought you bought the big one outside of Baghdad!"
I took in the green field jacket that seemed inadequate for a New York winter and considered the lines radiating from the wild eyes to the dark mysteries of hair that covered half of his face. Too old for Gulf War Two—maybe GW One?
"Or was it at Chipyong-ni?" He staggered and a pint bottle slid from a pocket to smash on the sidewalk.
Chipyong-ni? That was in North Korea—the Eighth Army had made a stand there against the Chinese communists back in '50–'51 . . . "Whoa, Sergeant Rock! You wanna do the spare-some-change-for-a-vet routine, I suggest you get a more believable back-story. Or at least settle on a particular war."
Our veteran for all seasons looked down at the shattered bottle. "Oops! Outta antifreeze!" Looked up. At me. "Buy a fellow soldier a drink?"
I looked around. No one else was standing still or making eye contact. This afternoon the role of Wacko Street Person's Imaginary Friend will be played by Christopher L. Cséjthe.
"Okay," I said. "Assuming that you can actually see me, is it possible that you can hear me, as well?"
"Uh-oh!" he said, "Charlie's here."
"Charlie?" I followed his gaze as he turned his head back toward the direction I had come.
A Thresher was rolling up the street behind me.
"It's Damn-Nang all over again!"
"Pick a war," I muttered, "any war—just stick with it." And started to run. The problem was Section Eight was in my way: I was between Sergeant Rock and a hard place.
"We'd better run for it, Sparks," he said. Then bellowed at the top of his lungs: "Retreat!"
I was already in the process of running through him, headed for the nearest wall, when he turned. It was like sinking through warm cookie dough that was suddenly flash-fried with a crisp, outer shell. "Hang on, Li'l Buddy! I'll get us outta here!"
And just like that, I was hitching another ride uptown. Only, instead of riding inside a two-ton truck, I was a passenger inside a three-hundred-pound refugee from Bellevue: Bogie on Board.
I tried to hop off. Jump out. Disengage.
I couldn't.
I was trapped in a psychic headlock, a prehistoric bug locked in amber. For all intents and purposes, I was the psychotic homeless guy, running down the middle of the street now. The fact that I didn't have anything to say about it was secondary. There was a storm of steel and chrome headed toward us and a Whirlwind of God nipping at our heels. At any moment now, this was going to end very badly for both of us.
Relax, kid.
Yeah, enjoy the ride.
And the warm.
Not to mention the room.
Yeah, you'd think six would be four too much, but Pauly's got a bigger skull and a smaller ego than most.
The voices belonged to more than one entity but, because they did not come from differing tongues and voice boxes, they were almost impossible to tell apart. Did I say differing tongues and voice boxes? There was nothing organic about the things chittering away in my—um—"ears."
Don't worry, son, Corporal Barrett is a veteran of rush-hour Ringalevio.
Yeah, he may not be much on the social interaction but he's Fran Tarkenton when it comes to broken-field running against crosstown traffic.
Fran Tarkenton? Try Johnny Unitas.
Yo, old timers! Try bringing it into the twenty-first century.
Yo? How about 'Yo Mama?'
Yeah, there ain't no quarterbacks worth discussin' since Joe Montana retired.
You talking before Kansas City or after?
I tried to look behind me.
Hey, don't do that!
Leave the body alone.
You don't want to mess him up while he's playing in traffic.
Like we said, relax and enjoy the ride.
As long as he stays off the bumpers, we're all safe.
The Proud Marys can't touch you as long as you're suited up.
"Proud Marys?" I asked.
And suddenly realized that Pauly was bellowing at the top of his lungs as he worked his way through cars and trucks like a salmon surging upstream to spawn: "Big wheels keep on turnin'! Big wheels keep on turnin'!"
Over and over and over again.
It wasn't long before we were running from the cops, as well.
We can run . . .
But Pauly can't hide.
Yeah, they know where he lives.
"Where does he live?"
In a packing crate.
No cardboard boxes for our boy.
Which makes it hard to move about.
Good thing he's big and strong.
No one's allowed to permanently stake out a grate, you see.
But they cut Pauly a little more slack than most. He's good about sharing. Especially on the cold nights.
Pauly's a prince.
"If Pauly's such a prince, what's he doing out here?"
You mean, cleaning windshields at red lights, panhandling for change, and sleeping in alleyways?
Our man Pauly took Unca Sammy to heart when he wuz told to be all that he could be.
And this is all that he could be once they taught him what they taught him.
"What did they teach him?"
Twenty-seven different ways to kill a man with your bare hands, for one thing.
Is it up to twenty-seven, now? They only taught me fifteen.
Poor Pauly: so big and so strong. You'd think God made a better killing machine when he super-sized those hands . . .
And backed them up with arms and shoulders that could snap bones with shrugs and gestures.
That's what the D.I.s thought.
D.I.s don't know nothin' about God, though.
Poor Pauly.
He wasn't cut out for killing.
Not like us.
No.
We're so good at it.
Were so good at it. Not so good at not being killed.
Yeah, at least Pauly's still alive.
Even if he ain't in one piece no more.
Me, I lost an arm at Guadalcanal. Pauly lost his mind in Hobo Woods, east of Binh Buong.
Good thing he's got us to look after him.
"Is that what you call it? Looking after him?"
What? You think you know us?
There's a lot of things that would move into someone's head if they could and cause all kinds of mischief.
Mischief would be a sad understatement.
Make The Exorcist look like My Dinner With Andre.
"So what kind of help are you giving him right now?"
What? This?
Pauly needs the exercise.
Especially since he's going to be locked up again for a while.
"You can't help him escape?"
Escape?
Evade the authorities?
Now who's crazy?
Pauly gets hauled in every so often for his own good.
Yeah, it's not like they lock him up and throw away the key.
It's more like a "catch-and-release" program.
He'll get deloused. A warm bed. Three squares. Medical attention.
They won't hurt 'im.
They like Pauly!
Pauly's a sweetie!
He's kind of a celebrity.
Or we are.
Yeah. We like to chat up the docs and they get all excited and write papers on multiple personality disorder.
Haven't you been paying attention? That's so out of fashion. It's DID, now.
DID?
Yeah. Dissociative . . .
Disassociative Identity Disorder.
That's it.
I thought we were multiple personality manifestations?
We are. It's just that they have different words for it, now.
What difference does it make?
Well, go back a few hundred years and say Pauly's possessed, instead. See what kind of difference that makes.
"So, you guys are ghosts, not demons?"
What's in a name?
Add up some of the stuff my country ordered me to do in a buffalo pasture half a world away . . . well . . . maybe the demon gig ain't so diff.
Hey, you follow orders—
Ours not to question why, ours but to do and di—
Put a sock in it, O'Rourke. All the crap the brass told us to do didn't make no goddam difference to whether good little American boys and girls grew up quoting Chairman Mao. You wanna give the Nazi bastards running the ovens at Auschwitz a pass because they were just following orders?
Why not? It's all just a cosmic circle-jerk anyway. We spend five decades fighting the Communists only to elect 'em to office and appoint 'em to the bench once the Evil Empire is finally brought to its knees. You can die for that flag, G.I. Joe, but your kids aren't allowed to pledge allegiance to it any more.
Not under God at any rate.
Hey, don't get me started on God!
What's your kick? God didn't command you to collect Gook ears and make necklaces.
I'm talking about the bigger picture, asswipe. Man's inhumanity to man.
Free will, baby.
Free will's got nothing to do with the Service.
Yeah? Well, neither does God.
Trouble is you're still looking for order in the universe. It's chaos theory all the way, Cappy.
"Are you sure," I asked, "that Pauly's the crazy one and you all are just along for the ride?"
There was a cop car up ahead and one of New York's Finest was exiting the passenger side.
What's this guy thinking? He's going to bring Pauly down bare-handed?
Yeah, a net or a beanbag gun would be a good idea. It took four guys the last time.
And we don't want to hurt nobody.
Or get Pauly hurt.
Better start steering or we're in for another verse of Sgt. Pepper-spray's Lonely Hearts Club Banned.
"Steering?"
Yeah. We can, you know.
Sometimes we have to.
Pauly don't always make the best choices when it comes to his own self-interests.
"Good thing he's got you guys on board to look after him."
Hey, if there's one thing they teach you in the service, it's you always got your buddy's back.
I think the new guy is being ironical.
Yeah? I thought he was one of us.
You mean as in "military" or as in "dead-and-gone?"
Military, natch. We're all D and G in here.
I'm not so sure, Gunny. This guy's still plugged into something.
What?
Sure as shit! What is he? Wired?
Maybe he ain't dead.
Yeah? And maybe he ain't human, neither.
"Hold on, boys. It's just the difference between you upgrading to dish while I'm still stuck with cable."
Maybe. And just maybe you're the next upgrade to the Devil's Armor—a stealth Proud Mary that can get under the skin and do its shredding from the inside.
Only you ain't dealing with no confused, newly dead civilian who's still calling out for his mama.
Naw.
The U.S. military taught us twenty-seven different ways to kill with our bare hands—
. . . they only showed me fifteen . . .
—and we faced scarier things than you before we died!
As well as after!
The darkness inside Pauly's head began to thicken and grow close with menace.
"Hold on, fellas. No need to go all Sergeant Fury and His Howling Commandos. I'm just a footloose guy on the astral plane trying to get back to my body before someone decides to pull the life-support plug at the hospital."
What's an astro-plane? Sounds like some kind of Russian space vehicle.
Body, huh? What hospital?
"I don't know. They hauled it off in an ambulance and I haven't seen it since. I just figured out I've got a lifeline I can follow a few hours ago. That was after the Threshers showed up and complicated everything."
Threshers?
"Proud Marys."
And I ended up repeating the story of my presumed demise and subsequent scavenger hunt for my mortal remains.
Sounds like a pretty tall tale to me, Maggot: vampire ghosts and intelligent swamp gas and such.
"Oh yeah. And six disembodied military vets riding around in the skull of a Section Eight AWOL is so SOP."
He's got a point, Sarge.
And a new mission would be a nice change of pace.
Yeah, running evasion maneuvers with the NYPD and playing PSY-OPS over at Bellevue gets old after awhile.
And even if an actual extraction or retrieval is out of the question for Pauly, we could still steer him enough to follow the cord and get you a little closer to the target.
Yeah, if you're telling the truth, it could be kind of interesting to see.
And, if you're not, it ain't gonna be pretty.
"I know. You know twenty-seven ways to kill with your bare hands."
Is he being ironical, again? That sounded like he was being ironical.
Now it was a white-knuckle combination chase, game of hide-and-go-seek, and treasure hunt as Pauly's barracks' buddies steered him to follow the now-you-see-it-now-you-don't astral cord that presumably led to my body. All the while we had to avoid the cops and mental health workers who were trying to work their way close enough to manage a bag-and-tag on the crazy street person who kept darting out into traffic.
By now we had picked up four Threshers who were rumbling along beside and behind like an honor guard. An honor guard waiting to shred me as soon as I popped outside of the crazy vet's carcass. The crazy vet, meanwhile, was humming "As Those Caissons Go Rolling Along."
The trick to steering is to firmly plant yourself in the driver's seat.
"Uh-huh."
Not that it's that simple with most people. The conscious mind does not willingly admit to other consciousnesses, much less share motor control. It's hard to get a grip unless the other's grip is kind of loose to begin with.
Drugs, alcohol—sometimes that's enough—
If the original will was weak to begin with.
Yeah, but the psych wards are usually the best places if you want a seat at the front of the bus.
"What are you saying? That the Middle Ages had it right? Mental illness is nothing more than demonic possession?"
Watch who you're calling a demon, Bub!
Like I said, not always proud of what I was ordered to do—
I still have nightmares!
—but those it was done to did far worse to me and mine!
Let me tell you something, kid. When you've been around a little longer you'll discover that nothing is all of one thing or another.
If there is a Devil, there are guys locked up in some upstate hospitals that even he wouldn't want in Hell with him!
Yeah, there are things that will get inside your head—some of 'em real, some imaginary. But there are guys who come out of the womb missing chromosomes that make the rest of us human.
Those, they don't need no trauma and they don't need no psychic hitchhikers to make 'em dangerous. They're just royally fucked up even before they're potty-trained.
Which way, now?
Left. Go left.
Shit! The damn thing goes right through the wall!
Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! Slow down!
Stop! Stop!
Pauly ran into the wall and rebounded. And fell backwards and hit the pavement.
A pair of Threshers loomed to our right, a couple of cops to our left.
Damn! So near and yet so far!
The wall was adjacent to a hospital emergency entrance.
I said my goodbyes quickly. The cops had cuffed Pauly and were in the process of hauling him to his feet. With the Threshers hovering just beyond, I would have to dash for the wall while I was still close. A few extra feet and I would lose my narrow margin of proximity.
Stop by and drop a twenty in Pauly's can if you can.
"How will I find you?"
Ask around.
Everyone on the street knows Pauly.
Yeah, they'll keep us locked up for observation for a few days but eventually we'll be back on the streets.
It never lasts too long.
And what is time when it's already run out, once?
"Good point. See you guys around. Semper Fi!"
What?
Oh crap! You weren't a Marine, were you?
"No. Coast Guard."
Good. For a moment we were afraid we were gonna have to make Pauly strangle himself.
Yeah. Demons are one thing, jarheads are something else altogether.
The cops pulled Pauly away from the hospital.
I pulled in the opposite direction.
There was a popping sensation and the Threshers rushed in.
I jumped and staggered, trying to dislodge my insubstantial foot that was momentarily hung up in Pauly's departing backside.
At the last minute I stumbled loose and fell through the wall.
And into the basement.
There must be dozens of storage rooms in hospital basements. Cleaning supplies, medical supplies, other supplies, parts, tools, equipment, furniture, linens.
Of course I landed in none of these. I ended up in the room with a wall full of stainless steel filing cabinets.
Filing cabinets with very wide drawers.
Drawers that weren't designed for manila folders, hanging folders, or any other kind of paper management system.
These drawers were designed for storing dead bodies: I had dropped into the hospital's morgue.
And the silvery cord that erupted from my hazy midsection snaked across the floor and into a drawer that was on the bottom row.