“Wait a minute. Talk a little more,” Judy begged finally. “I need the reassurance of your voice.”
“That’s more like the Judy I know. Don’t worry. Peter will be all right, and then you’ll stop dreaming.”
“But I had the dream before I knew he was hurt,” Judy protested.
“Don’t ask me to explain it. I’m no good at that sort of thing. Remember that old dream book, Judy? I’ll hunt it up, if you want me to, and find out what it means to dream of faceless people—”
“With golden hair.” Judy stopped herself quickly and said, “Don’t bother, Honey. The dream doesn’t matter any more. It’s Peter—”
“I know, dear. Call me back when you have news.”
Judy promised that she would. She felt better after talking with Honey. Now she was wide awake. Irene, hearing her up, tiptoed out into the living room.
“Any news?” she asked.
“Not yet,” replied Judy. “That was Honey on the phone. It seems ages ago that we were pretending she was at the table with us. So much has happened since then—Clarissa’s disappearance, and now Peter. I want to go to him, Irene. I’m not tired any more. I can sit in the hospital waiting room and be there when he wakes up. The Long Island trains run all night, don’t they?”
Irene consulted a timetable that was tacked to a bulletin board beside the telephone. “We just missed the two fifty-eight. This is Sunday morning. The trains don’t run very often. There isn’t another one until five o’clock. But we can drive in if you want to. We can bundle little Judy into the back seat, and she’ll never know the difference. Want to?”