The Saint waved expressively at the single room. In its four hundred square feet, one might hide a large bird if it were camouflaged as an atlas or something, but that would be about the limit.
The two bunk beds were made with hospital precision, and even a marble would have bulged under their tight covers. The deck chairs wouldn’t offer sanctuary for even an undernourished mouse, the table was high and wide open beneath the rough top, and the small bookcase was made to display its contents. “If we had time,” the Saint mused, “I could candy-stripe you — if I had some red paint — and put on a barber’s smock. Or... er... you say you’re dreaming all this?”
“That’s right.”
“Then why don’t you wake up — and vanish?”
The Saint’s visitor unhappily gnawed his full underlip.
“I always have before, when the going got tough, but — Oh, hell, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t want to die — even in my dream. Death is so... so...”
“Permanent?”
“Mmm, I guess. Listen, would you be a pal and try to steer these guys away? They’re after me.”
“Why should I?”
“Yeah,” the man said. “You don’t owe me a damn thing, but I’m trying to help Dawn. She—”