Click. From somewhere, a hemlock branch is in his hands. Not a branch with prickly needles but a staff sharpened to a spear point. He jumps to the nearest boat, thrashes through broken horrified souls toward the helmsman. The storm tosses the craft. He stumbles but surges forward, stumbles again, reaches the helm. The helmsman has vanished.
Click. Fast. Faster. He wills the craft toward the far shore. Faster. The cries of pain, the fear, the woe of the melting dripping cabbage faces straining to break from him, him the helmsman, to remain adrift in pain rather than to face the unknown shore.
“Bad trip, Man?”
Blank stare. Slack jaw.
“Hey, Man, bad trip, huh? You freaked out, Man. You’re a real freak-out, Man. Ha! Freak-Out Man.”
Tony looked out from their squat. Then he looked back at
