THAT NIGHT UNDER THE covers, he heard Erika whisper hotly in the darkness, “I really am sorry. Let me make it up to you.” He felt her hand sliding into his boxers.
“I need to get some sleep,” he muttered, brushing away her hand. “Sorry.”
She rolled over with her back to him with a low sob. He knew he should be apologizing to her, but the disturbing sense of bafflement he had been living with since coming home from Oregon had been occupying his thoughts since that morning. I’ll tell her I’m sorry in the morning, he told himself.
But now it was more than just that, wasn’t it? He had virtually forgotten how he had had another narcoleptic episode two years before while driving home from north Idaho, only to awaken outside the little community west of Spokane. He only now recalled how he had
