The nightmare woke me the next morning—the fear and the knife and the blood. I lay there panting and shuddering, my hair clinging damply to my neck from the nervous sweat.
A soft snuffle to my right startled me, almost causing me to tumble off the bed and onto to the floor. I glanced cautiously in that direction.
It was Paul, the rent boy known as Pretty Boy. He was curled on his side, sound asleep. In his arms he cuddled a ratty stuffed dog.
I swallowed and licked my lips. My heart rate was slowing, and I needed to use the bathroom. I eased out of bed and padded down the hall.
The apartment was dim and very quiet. When I was finished, I flushed, washed my hands, and splashed some water on my face.
I couldn’t go back to bed, even though the nightmare had quickly faded. I wandered into
