He named some other outfits of which I’m proud to be a member, including one or two I couldn’t recall having mentioned to him. That might have made me suspicious, but who would be suspicious of a Danish Swede (or a Swedish Dane) in the basement of a suburban house in Union City, New Jersey?

“Evan,” he said, “there’s some better brandy, and I insist you try a glass.”

I’d had enough for that hour of the day, but it would have been impolite to refuse. Harald, a blond giant with guileless blue eyes, lumbered into the other room and came back with two glasses of a liquid a little darker than amber. He very deliberately set one in front of me and raised the other in a toast.

“To necessity,” he said.

“Necessity?”

He nodded. “To it we must always bend our will. Skoal!”

“Skoal,” I agreed, although I wasn’t all that sure about the rest of it. But I drank, all the same.

We talked of other things, though I can’t say I remember what they were. What I do remember is that a curious drowsiness began to come over me. My mind wandered. I yawned, and apologized for it.

“You must be tired,” Harald said. “Would you care to lie down for a few minutes, Evan?”

“No, thank you. It’s not necessary.”

“Just for a little while. A nap, eh? I think it’s a good idea. Look at you, you can’t keep your eyes open!”

He was right. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. But that didn’t make sense. If there was one thing I could always do, it was keep my eyes open. I did close them now and then – to rest them, to go into a yogic relaxation mode – but it was always entirely voluntary. I closed them because I decided to, not because they decided to close of their own accord.

But that’s what they were doing. Closing, all by themselves. And I couldn’t seem to do anything about it. I couldn’t even remember to try…