By the side of the road, he could see the police car he had stolen—infinite ages ago. He walked toward it, and when he reached it he climbed in and closed the door.
"Beautiful morning," Captain Waters said, starting the motor.
Fred awoke and opened his eyes. Across the room the French doors were open. Sunlight was filtering through the copper screens. A breeze was playing gently with the drapes. For a moment the flight, the long walk into the country, his rendezvous with Aloneness, Captain Water's coming to bring him back, all seemed the stuff of dreams. He had the feeling that he had never left this enormous bed.
Then it returned. Reality. The miracle of his reorientation to belief, the new vistas that went with it. The full realization of the true nature of the vanishments.
He became aware of a figure in the doorway, watching him. It was Mrs. Waters. "Awake?" she asked cheerfully.
"Yes," Fred said.
"Want some breakfast?"
He nodded. She went away.
He raised his head and looked about the room, at the homey touches, the family pictures on the dresser and the walls, the hand sewed knickknacks and frills. This was probably the Waters' own bedroom that they had given up for him.