He dropped the cigarette on the floor. Glen watched it land, and then, as if in slow motion, bounce once, and then again before finally coming to rest next to the trailing edge of his blanket.
The edge of the cloth glowed red and began to smoke.
"Oh, no," Glen whispered. He looked up at his mom and dad. "The bed -- "
"Oh, my. Look at that." The nurse put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your bed's on fire, I'm afraid."
His mom's eyes widened. "I knew it. You see, Randall? You see what I mean? Come on." She stood and grabbed hold of Glen's hand. "We'd better get going."
"Well, shoot." His dad put his hands on his hips and frowned. "I guess you're right, Susanna Kane. We better get going. We better run, in fact."
Glen started to get out of bed. The nurse pushed him back down.
"No, you don't. We got some more tests to do."
"Please let me go," Glen said. "Please."
The nurse shook her head. "I'm sorry, son."
"Glen, come on!" Mark stood at the door to the hall, holding it open. As Glen watched, his dad walked through that door and disappeared.
"Dad!"
"Come on, Glen," Mark yelled. "I can't hold this door open forever!"
Glen tried again to get up. The nurse, again, pushed him back down.
His hand slipped free from his mom's.
"Oh, Glen." His mom was crying. "I wish you would come with us."
Glen started crying too.
"I'm coming, Mom! Don't leave without me."
But she was going. She was gone, out the door after his dad. With a last look back at Glen, Mark followed.
"Wait!"
Glen climbed out of bed.
The nurse stood in front of him, blocking his way.
He made a fist at her. She shook her head.
"You heard your dad, Glen. No fighting."
"But -- "
"No fighting."
He shoved past her. Except now the room was so filled with smoke, he couldn't see the door. He couldn't even see past his own hand now. He stumbled, first in one direction, then the other, and then all of a sudden...
He looked up, and saw he was standing at the foot of a stairway -- the stairway at his house, back in Marfa. It wasn't the hospital room on fire, he realized then. It was his house.
And with that, he remembered it all, and began to scream.
At the nurse's station, in the burn unit at Fort Sam Houston, a machine started beeping. A nurse set down her Vogue magazine, and frowned. The boy in room 41 was moving again.
She hurried down the long hall into his room. Quickly, she adjusted the sedative drip so the boy would remain unconscious -- so that his body could concentrate on healing. The doctors had scheduled him for another skin graft tomorrow as well -- he'd need all his strength for that.
She moved closer to the bed, and saw the boy's hair had fallen into his eyes. She brushed it back. Thank God for small favors -- at least the burns on his face were relatively minor. With any luck, they'd fade after time. He'd be able to live a relatively normal life -- assuming he survived the next few weeks here. Assuming anyone could live a relatively normal life after their whole family had been killed.
"Poor kid," she whispered.
Glen rolled over in his sleep, and reached out toward the sound of her voice.
His mom was talking.
Glen could hear her speak, hear her voice coming through the door to the funeral parlor office, which he was standing right in front of. The question was, though, was she with a client? Because if she was with a client, he wasn't supposed to interrupt her. Talking with clients was serious business. Funerals (and dead people, for that matter) were very serious business indeed. But Glen wanted to tell her what had happened today at school, his first day of second grade; he had made a friend, a boy named Brian Erben, who lived just five minutes down the road and had already invited him over to play with his racing set. If his mom wasn't with a client, she could call Brian's folks and set it up, right now. This afternoon.
Glen took a step closer to the door and pressed his ear up against it.
His mom was laughing. His mom did not laugh when she was with clients. It sounded more like she was talking to a friend. Maybe Mrs. Keith, or Mrs. Larrabee, or...
No. It was a man, Glen heard his voice now. Dad. It had to be Dad. Glen smiled. Dad would be glad to hear about Brian too. Dad was always worried about Glen being able to make friends because he couldn't do sports or run around outside. And here it was, first day of school, and he'd made a friend already. Dad would probably drive him right over.
His mom laughed again. More of a giggle than a laugh.
Boy. Everyone was in a good mood. This was going to be great.
Glen turned the knob and pushed the door open without knocking.
The laughter stopped.
His mom was sitting on the couch opposite the desk. There was a man sitting next to her. The man had a hand on her knee.
The man was not his dad.
The man was Paul Grimm.
Grimm was a stocky little man with black hair and a mustache who worked in the funeral parlor with Glen's parents. He was the embalmer. Played around with all the dead bodies, all the chemicals in the basement. He was always trying to be nice to Glen, for some reason, Glen had no idea why. He babysat for Glen once in a while, even, when his parents had to go out. Glen always went to sleep early rather than spend time with the man.
His mom stood up quickly. Her face was a little red.
"Glen Jacob Callaway. When a door is closed, what do we do?"
"Sorry."
"What do we do?"
"Knock."
"That's right, we knock." His mom ran her hands over the front of her dress, smoothing it out. "What if I was in here with a client, Glen? What if -- "
"I said I was sorry."
"That's all right. No harm done." Grimm stood up himself. "How are you, Glen? Good to see you again. You remember me, right? Paul Grimm."
"Yeah," Glen said. "I remember you."
Grimm smiled. "Good. I'm glad. So how was your school today? Big day, right? Your first day of, uh, what? First grade?"
"Second."
"Second. My, my. My, my, my. You are growing up fast. Getting to be a big kid."
Glen rolled his eyes; he hated when grown-ups talked to him like that.
His mom saw. She came around the coffee table in front of the couch, shaking her head.
"Now, Glen. You be nice to Mr. Grimm, please."
"Paul. I want the boy to call me Paul, Susanna," Grimm said, all at once sounding very serious. "You remember -- like we talked about?"
"That's right. I'm sorry. Call him Paul," his mom said, putting her hands on Glen's shoulders. "You think you can do that, Glen?"
"Yes, ma'am." He looked at Grimm again. "Paul."
"That's right. That's good." Grimm looked happy now. "You and me ought to be on a first-name basis, Glen. Me working here and all. We're kind of like family, don't you think?"
His mom's hands tightened on Glen's shoulders for a second.
Glen was about to ask her to ease up when his eyes fell on the coffee table in front of the couch. There were papers spread out all over it -- old-looking papers. Underneath those papers, the edge of a book peeked out. A big, brown, oversize book.
The Kane family scrapbook.
Grimm's eyes followed his. The man bent down and grabbed up a handful of those papers.
"And speaking of family -- "
He straightened the papers into a stack, held the stack out to Glen.
"You might be interested in these, son."
"Oh, yes, Glen," his mom said. "I think you'd be very interested in them. They're very interesting. Look them over. That's what Paul and I were doing when you came in, honey. Looking over those papers."
Grimm smiled again. "Yes, sir. That's what we were doing, all right."
"What are they?" Glen asked.
"Copies of some things I found the other day -- while I was up at Sul Ross. The university. Some information about your family, Glen. The Kanes."
"My name is Callaway," Glen said.
"Yes. It is, isn't it?" Grimm smiled. "But the name doesn't really matter, does it, Glen? Blood is what's important. Believe me, I ought to know. Considering my line of work."
"Oh, yes," his mom said from behind him. "Blood is what matters."
"The blood running through your veins, Glen," Grimm said. "Your family's blood. That's what these papers are all about, Glen. Family."
The man thrust the sheaf of papers into Glen's face.
"Go on. Take a look."
Glen couldn't help it. He glanced at the top sheet of paper. There were just two words on it.
You're Dreaming
A chill ran down his spine.
"Oh, no," he said.
Grimm nodded. "Oh, yes."
Glen spun around quickly.
His mom was gone.
Glen turned around again.
The writing on the paper had changed.
She's Dead
Grimm laughed. Glen stumbled backward, felt the office door behind him. It was hot to the touch. He smelled smoke.
He remembered everything.
"Mom," he croaked. "Dad. Mark."
Grimm was smiling, holding the paper up in one hand and pointing to it with the other.
Dead Dead Dead All Dead
Grimm's gaze bore into his. The man's eyes glittered.
"Didn't I tell you, Glen? Didn't I tell you the papers were all about your family? Now you know everything you need to, isn't that right? About your family?"
"No," Glen said.
"Yes." Grimm smiled again. "They're dead, Glen. Dead and gone. It's just you and me now, son. I'm the closest thing to family you got left."
The man grabbed his arm.
Glen struggled as hard as he could, trying to break free.
He thrashed about so violently during what was supposed to be the fifth and final operation that he ripped away half the evening's work, ripped off a sheet of skin the size of a shirt pocket from his right arm, and made a sixth operation necessary. The nurses were given a new sedative and new instructions: make certain the boy doesn't get anywhere close to consciousness.