Bernard laughed, then clapped a hand on Martin’s shoulder. “You’re not ready for a ride in the Twinkie Mobile just yet; it’s the same building.”

“You have any idea how it . . . how the watercolor came to be here?”

Bernard thought about it for a few moments, then shook his head. “Beats me. You wanna ask Ethel? Maybe she knows.”

“No, it’s all right. I’m not all that curious.” Which was a lie, but he didn’t want to risk drawing any more attention to himself than he already had.

Reminding him that lunch was in an hour, Bernard left Martin’s room and returned to the nurses’ station, where he informed Ethel and Amber that it hadn’t been anything important.

Martin closed the door to his room, then walked back to the window.

The golden web was gone, as were the creatures.

And Martin was scared—scratch that: he was (as Wendy would undoubtedly put it) fuckin’ terrified. Yeah, some of this could be chalked up to all the drugs that had traveled through his system in the last twelve or thirteen hours, but not all of it. Jesus! Had he done something to mess up his brain chemistry? Had some of the pills from last night done serious, irreparable damage before he’d gotten sick? Was this temporary or was it going to get worse? After all, he hadn’t given a second thought to brain damage when assembling the ingredients for his Shuffling-Off Cocktail (as he’d thought of it), no; he’d intended to go all the way, so why bother worrying about the possible consequences of what might happen if he didn’t finish the job?

Oh, God, he thought. Have I . . . damaged something?

Calm down.

Take a few deep breaths . . . that’s it.

Think about something else, anything else.

He closed his eyes, saw an image in the darkness of his father sitting in front of the television, his body weak, his skin pale, sipping juice from a straw, asking Martin or Mom to turn up the sound a little, he couldn’t hear so hot, and, son-of-a-bitch these treatments really took it out of you, if he had it to do over, he’d’ve told them damn doctors to just cut out his prostate and be done with it instead of keeping the bastard . . . .

Martin went back into the main area, shoved in the videotape of The Best Years of Our Lives, and sat down, focusing all of his attention on the movie. It was a good movie, a damn fine movie, a movie he’d seen at least half a dozen times, and you couldn’t really get enough of Fredric March, Dana Andrews, and Harold Russell, especially in that glorious first half-hour, and here they were, all three of them, playing their roles to perfection, these three characters fresh from WWII trying to find a plane home, finally catching a ride in the cargo hold of a small transport, getting to know each other, talking about the war, what it was going to be like going home, then Harold Russell did that famous business with his prosthetic hands—his hooks—lighting everyone’s cigarettes with a single match, and then—

—and then all three of them stopped talking, stopped moving, and for a second Martin thought maybe the tape had gotten caught, it was an old VCR, after all, he was lucky it had played this much of the movie, so he leaned forward to hit the STOP/EJECT button—

—and Harold Russell looked right out at him, right into the camera. “We’d really prefer it if you didn’t do that just yet, Martin.” “You need to hear the rest of the story,” said Dana Andrews. “It won’t take that long, we promise.” “By the way,” said Fredric March, “we’ve been asked to apologize to you for the manner in which this is being sent your way.” Pulling the cigarette from his mouth, Harold Russell added: “We’re a little pressed for time.” Dana Andrews nodded. “You can say that again.” “Fellahs,” said March, “could we get on with this while he’s still alone?” Martin began rising to his feet. “What the hell is—?” Andrews pointed a finger. “This will go a lot easier if you’ll just please sit still and shut up.”

“What my friend means,” said March, “is that we know how difficult this must be for you, but there is a good reason, and you’ll understand everything a lot better if you’ll just bear with us a little longer.” Harold Russell winked at Martin. “‘Keep your eyes open and your ears peeled and—’” “‘—your ass will stay attached,’” said Martin, tears welling in his eyes. “Dad used to say that all the time.” “It was his unit’s motto during the war,” said March. “71st Infantry, wasn’t it?” “Yes.” March nodded. “A good bunch of fellahs, your Dad’s unit. Destroyed one of Hitler’s secondary bunkers, didn’t they?” Martin nodded. “Dad carved his name into Hitler’s desk before he spit on it.”

Andrews laughed loudly. “Oh, I like that! Your dad must’ve been a helluva guy.” “Yes . . . yes, he was.” Fredric March pointed to his watch, and the other two nodded. “I’ll start,” March said. Then, looking directly at Martin:

“‘An old magic man’s new apprentice learns his lessons well, and soon is as powerful as the magic man himself. But this irritates an old magic man, who demands that the apprentice stop being such a show-off all the time.’”

“‘They argue,’” said Russell, taking up the tale. “‘Each grows more and more angry. The apprentice loses his temper and pulls the drain-plug from an old magic man’s head, re-opening the hole. The magic gushes out and the apprentice begins stealing it.’”

“‘An old magic man attacks the apprentice,’” said Andrews. “‘They claw at one another, screaming and thrashing and biting. Great gobs of flesh drop from their bones and smack against the surface of the wooden mask and begin to wriggle.’”

After this, Martin lost track of who said what; he only listened, he only watched, trying to make sense out of everything, trying to find a rational explanation; finding none, he could only accept what his senses dictated was real.

“‘An old magic man and his apprentice tear at one another until they are nothing more than slick bones that soon clatter to the floor in a heap. But the magic that has oozed and squirted from both of them covers the wooden soldier mask. The mask comes fully alive and swallows the magic. It grows a body with giant, powerful limbs and terrible wings. It rises up and shrieks into the darkness. The darkness is afraid for a moment, and cowers back. The mask opens its mouth and takes a bite out of the darkness, leaving a bright, golden hole in the night. The mask smiles, for it has the power of both an old magic man and his apprentice. It can do anything it wants.

“‘It unfurls its terrible wings and takes flight, soaring higher and higher, looking down upon all the wondrous things that have been revealed by the golden light spilling from the hole in the darkness. But, suddenly, it smacks its head into something and comes crashing down. Angered, it again takes flight, and again is knocked back down.

“‘“Why is this happening?” it cries out.

“‘“Where, exactly, do you think you are?” asks a distant voice.

“‘And the mask cries, “Show yourself!”’

“‘“You’re only as powerful as I think you are,” says the voice. “Never forget that.” “‘The mask flies up again and rams into the invisible barrier—but this time does not come crashing back down. “‘And, suddenly, it knows where it is, and to whom the voice belongs. “‘“I’m inside your head, aren’t it?” “‘“And here you’ll stay,” says the painter. “I may be ill, but I’m not so weak as to let you devour all my dreams.” “‘“We’ll see about that,” says the mask.

“‘And it remains there to this day, trapped inside the head of a painter who once dreamed a dream of a magic man and his young apprentice.

“‘But the mask has changed, has grown more powerful as the painter grows more ill. It is stuffing itself—gorging itself—on his dreams, his images, his ideas and memories . . .