After another fifteen minutes, the feeling of something watching him, waiting for him, began to subside. By the time 6:15 a.m. rolled around, he could at least look away from the door for 30 seconds at a time.

By 6:40 a.m., he felt good enough to get himself a drink, pulling a Coke from the fridge, popping its top and gulping it down in giant sips.

He lay down on the sofa and thought briefly of picking up the remote. But he worried. What if he turned on the TV and his dream was on it? It had happened before.

He should be used to this, he thought. His nightmares began when he was a kid-but back then there was at least some feeling of relief when he woke up.

Lately, Quinn had not felt that way. Instead, his dreams had taken on a tangible feel. The sound of a horse chasing him, the smell of the pine forest as he ran through it, even the feel of his feet slipping in the clay as he ran down a hill. In contrast, waking life felt vague and indistinct, as if it were the dream and not the other way around.

Quinn heard a thump at the door.

He was out of his chair in an instant, the knife back in his hand. The Coke in his lap had spilled to the ground, now seeping out its remaining brownish liquid onto the white carpet.

He waited for the thing to come through the door. After what felt like an eternity he realized the noise had not been caused by any monster. It had just been the delivery kid dropping off newspapers near his front door. Quinn’s body sagged in relief.

He sighed and went back to the kitchen, putting the knife on the counter and picking up some paper towels to soak up the spilled soda.

He waited another ten minutes before going to the front door, opening it quickly and pulling the two papers inside. The first was the Washington Post, a must for anybody living in the suburbs of the District of Columbia. He dropped it on the ground as he sat back down.