It was light. Not bright, but the vague light of the first blush of dawn. The rheumatism in my right shoulder woke up a second or two after I did—but I had never had rheumatism in my life! Startled, I jerked an elbow under me and rose up.
Beside me, still asleep, lay a woman. She had gray hair. It was done up in tight curls held in place with bobby pins, and made her look bald headed.
I stared at her for one preternatural second, then groaned, "Oh Lord!" and sank back on my pillow.
The woman stirred in her sleep. She opened her eyes, and I closed mine quickly, pretending to be asleep, waiting for her to scream in alarm at the strange man in her bed.
Instead, she patted my cheek gently. "Dave," I heard her say. "It's five-thirty. Time to put the water on for coffee."
I sighed deeply, pretending to wake up, and got out of bed without looking at her. I felt her eyes on my back as I stumbled toward the door and temporary escape from her inquiring eyes. The rheumatism in my right shoulder was throbbing painfully.
I had never seen the living room before. It was furnished with things that were well kept, but out of style. It wasn't my living room. Nevertheless I crossed it to the kitchen and quietly searched cupboards until I found the dripolator and a kettle that was obviously used for heating the coffee water. I filled it and placed it over a gas flame.
Not until then did I let myself think. I was Fred Martin. I must remember that. There was strong evidence that I was Orville Snyder with a no-good wife who might be either alive or murdered. Now—I took a deep breath—who else was I?
There was a mirror hanging on the wall beside the breakfast table. I could look at myself in it. Or would my face blur like the type on those headlines I had been dreaming about?