S. J. Rozan
When the phone rang I was asleep, and I was dreaming.
Alone in the shadowed corridors of an unfamiliar place, I heard, ahead, boisterous shouts, cheering. In the light, in the distance, figures moved with a fluid, purposeful grace. Cold fear followed me, something from the dark. I tried to call to the crowd ahead: my voice was weak, almost silent, but they stopped at the sound of it. Then, because the language I was speaking wasn’t theirs, they turned their backs, took up their game again. The floor began to slant uphill, and my legs were leaden. I