But once she was standing, the effects of the nightmare began to dissipate. She was surprised to find herself trembling. She laughed nervously. She had dreamed that Walt was crossing the carpet toward her bed, walking in silent invisibility. He had raised a knife to plunge it into her heart—had raised a great rock to smash her skull—had aimed a pistol at her brain—while she lay in chill terror, waiting, helpless.
The cold made goose pimples on her naked skin. But her own laugh reassured her.
A second of concentration and blood flowed skin-ward, warming her.
She found the light switch.
When the light came on, she heard the guard outside the door shuffle restlessly.
She began to dress. She needed no more sleep. She was anxious to get back on the job—trying to stop the invasion; although now, in spite of her mutant powers, now that the course of action was outlined, she seemed more in the way than of assistance.
Now why, she thought, would it suddenly seem so important that I should seal off Walt's mind? Yesterday, when he was so tired, I almost gave him back his mutant powers. I do trust him, don't I? Of course. After all the help he's given us, I know—there's not the tiniest doubt, really—that he's completely on our side.
Now why—?
Seal ... off ... mind....
She tried to ignore the thought. It isn't that important, she argued with herself.