Fleetwood took him under the arms, and, ignoring his moans of pain, half-dragged, half-carried him to the nearest chair. He eased him into the chair and turned back. Then he stopped and looked around at the little man again. He sucked in his breath with a start of surprise.
Dermitt was losing substance! He was actually fading away into a shadow of himself. The dying fictional projection was carrying away the physical one. The wound was too vital, too real to the writer for him to draw resistance from the fact of its fictional source. There wasn't much time.
"Hurry, Cassidy!" Dermitt mouthed soundlessly. "Hurry!"
Fleetwood pulled himself away from the spectacle of the fading bug-eyed little author who had forced him through volumes of abuse and harassment, who had actually attempted to murder Kitty and himself. He ran to the typewriter.
He sat down and poised his hands over the keys. Then, with one last intense glance in Dermitt's direction, he began to type....
The drug store sparkled from its cleaning of the night before. Morning sunshine, showing through the plate-glass windows, conspired with the indirect lighting to make the displays, the jars, the bottles, the paper clips and snake bite kits gleam like a rajah's ransom. Fleetwood perched himself on the stool at the end of the counter and leaned forward in an attitude of expectation. Presently he was rewarded.
"Fleetwood!" Kitty called, catching sight of him. She came swiftly to dock at the napkin holder in front of him. "I was hoping you'd show up today. I had the goofiest dream about you last night."
"I'll bet," Fleetwood said with a sigh of happy relief. Explanations weren't going to be necessary after all.
"I'd tell you about it," Kitty went on, "but every time I try to get it straight in my head everything just gets all mixed up. I was mad at you, I remember, but at the same time I didn't really want to be."