She had laid him. She didn't know now and hadn't known then if she wanted to lay him, but she had. And screamed when she came.

That had been near the end.

She remembered that, too – how it had been near the end. He had gotten married not long after, but it would have been near the end anyway. He was weak, and he was bent.

Doesn't matter anyway, she thought, and gave herself the old, good advice: Let it go.

Advice easier given than followed. It was a long time before Anderson got over into sleep that night. Old ghosts had stirred when she moved her book of undergraduate poems … or perhaps it was that high, mild wind, hooting the eaves and whistling the trees.

She had almost made it when Peter woke her up. Peter was howling in his sleep.

Anderson got up in a hurry, scared – Peter had made a lot of noises in his sleep before this (not to mention some unbelievably noxious dogfarts), but he had never howled. It was like waking to the sound of a child screaming in the grip of a nightmare.

She went into the living room naked except for her socks and knelt by Peter, who was still on the rug by the stove.

'Pete,' she muttered. 'Hey, Pete, cool it.'

She stroked the dog. Peter was shivering and jerked away when Anderson touched him, baring the eroded remains of his teeth. Then his eyes opened – the bad one and the good one – and he seemed to come back to himself. He whined weakly and thumped his tail against the floor.

'You all right?' Anderson asked.

Peter licked her hand.

'Then lie down again. Stop whining. It's boring. Stop fucking off.'

Peter lay down and closed his eyes. Anderson knelt, looking at him, troubled.

He's dreaming of that thing.

Her rational mind rejected that, but the night insisted on its own imperative – it was true, and she knew it.

She went to bed at last, and sleep came sometime after two in the morning.