Reborn

Interlude on Central Park West—II

"Are you going to stand at that window all night?"

"Just a moment longer, my dear," Mr. Veilleur told his wife.

The feeling was gone—or almost gone. He wasn't sure. He stared down at the dark blotch of the park below, its blackness cut by the illuminated ribbons of its traverses, mostly empty now on this wintry night. The same with the street directly below, and Columbus Circle off to the right.

The prickling alarm in the most primitive regions of his brain had finally quieted, but that gave him scant comfort. Its cause could be out there still, its aura attenuated by distance. It could be growing stronger beyond the limits of his perception.

Or maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe he had fallen asleep in front of the TV and had had a nightmare that carried over briefly into consciousness.

Yes, that had to be it. A nightmare. That was what he had told his wife.

He couldn't be back. It was impossible.

But for a moment there…

No. A bad dream. Nothing more.

But what if I'm wrong?

He shuddered. If he was wrong, untold horrors lay ahead. Not only for him but for all those living and yet to be born. He turned to his wife and forced a smile. "What's on the boob tube tonight?"