Dave heard the knife whispering to him in the night. At first, the voice was distant, it mumbled and hissed at the very edge of his consciousness, but it became more and more insistent, and suddenly it grew loud, and he could not keep the blade’s words from slicing their way into his mind. He felt for the ink and caressed it, tracing the lines with the tips of his fingers, again and again, long into the small dark hours. When he awoke, still tired and with dark circles underneath his eyes, he groaned and reached for his pillow to block out the light even though it was still dark outside. He felt odd. He was usually such a good sleeper and he had not had to rely on an alarm clock for years, but try as he might he could not return to the Land of Nod.
Dave started to get angry with himself;
