Samuel was drifting out into the dark. It was good. He was tired. It was peaceful. The hard edge of the chair ceased to matter to him, until it was superseded by the feel of a warm and clammy hand on his face.

Very slowly he opened his eyes, to see a familiar face. Dark curls and a wide brow, now furrowed with worry. Why worry? "You're back," he said, glad, even though he was not sure if he was seeing ghosts. It took a second to remember the question.

"Two," he said, then: "No. Two and a half." He tried to remember how long ago, but could not. "I will take another half, if I need to be more awake again. Soon, maybe" he continued, more to himself. It seemed he was in the downswing phase of his first two doses. Two and a half. Measuring them out would need to be done with care, but he would manage. He always did. His eyes had closed again and he opened them to see if the face was still there. It was. Why? This was Don Juan, who had wanted to leave him. He contemplated him with mild curiosity.

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