swam into focus. Coal skin gleaming in silver light; small eyes piercing through his own; lips pressed together, worried and tight: the bartender's face stopped, fixated in perfect clarity before T.S. Behind him, the room spun in circles and the silver wallpaper sent starbursts tumbling across the hallway. How had he gotten so far? What was he doing in the hall?
"Sir? Sir? Shall I fetch the lady?" It was a golden voice, a trustworthy voice, far preferable to the rest. T.S. leaned, seeking the source of that comfort, and managed to drape both arms over the bartender's shoulders. There he clung, unwilling and unable to let go.
An argument ensued but the voices were too jumbled to decipher. It sounded instead as if small animals were quarreling at his feet. T.S. was vaguely aware that they were arguing about him, that the deep-voiced bartender wanted to take him away from the madness. T.S. clung harder, trying to tell the kind man that he was right, that he wanted more than anything to leave. Hands tugged at his jacket and he felt the sharp fingernails of the towering redhead scrape his back through the thin cotton shirt underneath. The bartender's weight shifted as he attempted to fend off the others. Without warning, T.S. lost the strength in his arms and began to slide to the floor.
Just as he was ready to fall asleep, new hands were there, helping him up. Two more pairs of hands: one strong, the other cool and fluttering.
"Theodore? Theodore? What's the matter, Theodore?" Lilah's voice cut through the crashing sounds exploding in his brain. Lilah was there. What was happening to him?
"He's taken sick," the kind voice said from a great, hollow distance. "I'll help you get him into a cab."
"No need," T.S. heard Lilah say. She, too, seemed far, far away. "I've got a car downstairs. Could you help me get him there?" Why did she sound so upset? Where was the problem? He should be helping her, T.S. thought vaguely, not slumped here like a dead man propped for one last good look against the wall.
He was aware that Albert was beside him as well, tugging him forward on one side while the bartender pulled him along on the other. It was hateful to be so helpless and in Albert's power, but there was nothing T.S. could do. His brain still functioned, albeit slowly, but his feet would not work, his arms were as limp as wet noodles and a small fire flared in his stomach. Somehow he was heading toward the door, though his legs dragged behind him like the support poles of a litter. His coat was thrown over his shoulders.
"Hurry! Hurry!" he heard Lilah say. He tried to walk faster and managed to move his legs. He pulled away from Albert before crashing into the door.
He did not remember the elevator ride downstairs, but surely he had taken one. Because the next thing he knew, he was leaning against the cushions in the backseat of Lilah's limo. Ah, safety. He was home free. And away from that whirling crowd, those darting red tongues and those hideous serpentine glances. And here was Lilah, dear, dear Lilah, whispering gently to him as she brushed the hair off of his brow.
"Shhhh," she was saying, still from a place far, far away. "Don't try to talk." A cool wetness covered his brow, it swept over his face like a balm. Ice. She was patting him with ice. What a wonderful thing a limousine was, he thought thickly. Full of ice and glasses and liquor and… liquor. Ugh. The very word sickened him. His back stiffened and his stomach began to spasm.
"Grady!" Lilah shouted in sudden alarm. "Pull over. I think you'd better pull over."
What was this? Who was bothering him now? Someone was trying to pull him from the safety of the limo. Strong arms grabbed at his shoulders and he was halfway outside. He fought, pushing away the arms, struggling to be free.
"Just do it," he heard Lilah's sharp voice command. "Throw up, Theodore. Forget that I'm here. Just throw up."
Throw up? How odd. He was dreaming again. Lilah, acting as a cheerleader for him to be sick? He did not have much time to think about the absurdity of it because the nausea finally hit, overwhelming him and stripping him of any strength he had left to resist. He gave up his struggle and stopped fighting the feeling. With a sense of relief, he felt