A boy sits, back against the wall, in a cramped room, his expression distant. The room is lit by a single light bulb, flickering faintly on the ceiling.

A house fly lands on the boy's knee, which is marred by a long scar. The boy's brows furrow, as he watches the fly clean its eyes, its legs, its mouth area. The fly moves a few inches along the scar, then continues its routine.

A muffled voice calls, and the boy's muscles tense. There is a slight pounding sound—footsteps, maybe. The voice again, now closer. The doorknob begins to rattle, but doesn't turn.

The boy squeezes his eyes closed.

There is knocking at the door; the voice more insistent now.

The pounding sound continues—not footsteps—the boy's heartbeat.

The voice booms, as the knob seems ready to fall off. The door shakes on its hinges.

The boy's heartbeat crescendos, a deep drumming that fills the room.

Then silence outside the room.

The drumming continues, but begins to fade. The boy's breathing comes in long, full breaths, gradually slowing.

With a steady, deep exhale, the boy opens his eyes. He looks at the scar on his knee.

The fly is gone.

* * *

I sit up in bed and rub my eyes.

Gwyn grunts next to me, and strains to see the clock. "Floyd," she says, grimacing, "So early." She rolls over.

I get up. I won't be falling back asleep, anyway. I never can, after. Why now? I ask myself. It has been years since the last one.

I breath in the warm mist of the shower water, and the boy turns in my mind. Who is he? What is significant? I am supposed to ask questions like these. That's what they told me. Still, I doubt they understand the nature of it any more than I do.

As coffee brews, the smell of it reminds me of Ed, my late uncle. He lived off the stuff—that, and cigarettes. No. He died off those, I think, darkly, before turning my thoughts back to coffee.

Ed would carry a thermos of it pretty much wherever he went. I smile, remembering that time he offered some to a homeless guy.

Today, I meet with a new financial adviser. I check my watch. 6:30. I finish my coffee and throw on some clothes. As I open the door to my apartment, I have a stabbing feeling I've forgotten something. Kevin. I close the door, and walk to the kitchen. Kevin stares at me.

"You had one job," I hear him thinking.

"Sorry," I mutter, grabbing a small canister from the counter. I open the top a little, and sprinkle some flakes into the fishbowl. Kevin stares at the food, floating on the surface, where it has clumped together. When some of the pieces begin to sink, he darts over and devours them.

I watch for a while, wondering what Kevin's life is like; forced to rely completely on another for survival.

As I walk to the subway, I zig zag from one sidewalk to the other. It takes longer like this, but is necessary. I continue in this way for three blocks, when I hear a loud bark, followed by a jarring, Clang! I turn, to see a doberman pincer, its teeth bared, growling. It has run up against the end of its chain. It eyes me menacingly through the small picket fence that separates us, sending a clear message. "Get back!"

I stand frozen for a moment, chest pounding. A-Another one, I think, and begin to ease away, backing toward the street. From a safe distance, I snap a picture in my mind, letting the spot burn into my memory, before proceeding.

I arrive at the office building at about 7:30. The door is locked. I wait.

As time passes, the boy from the dream crowds my mind. This was something new. What does he want from me? It is always something. Every time, it's something. That's how it seems to go with me.

"Good morning, Floyd." A woman has walked up to the door. "I hope you haven't waited here long?"

It has been an hour and a half. "No, not long," I say.

She lets me in.

As we make small talk, the subject turns to family.

"Your mother died when you were young. That must have been hard."

I shrug.

"Your father? Was he there for you?" she asks, her eyes probing my face.

"Never met him," I say, frowning. Why is she asking these questions? I move in my chair, trying to get comfortable.

She lets out a long breath, with a steady nod, still looking at me in the same way. I feel like I am being observed. No. Studied. I wonder if Keven feels that way sometimes, as I watch him through the glass.

"I see," she says, finally.

We speak of other things, and she gives me the advice I came for.

On the way home, I am more careful on the streets, and reach the last block to my apartment without incident.

As I step on the sidewalk leading to the front door, my phone vibrates. I look at it, but do not recognize the number. After some hesitation, I answer. "Floyd."

... Nothing.

"Hello?" I figure it's one of those annoying systems that waits to see if someone is really on the phone, before patching in a person or robot that is even more annoying. I decide to end the call.

"Rshhhk Shhhhhhk Shhhk Shhk."

I frown. "What?"

"Rshhhk Shkhhhk Shhhk Shhk."

"I can't understand you. Bad connection, maybe."

"Rshhhk Shkhhhk Sh—"

I hang up.

Entering my apartment, I sit down at the dining room table. Gwyn is at work, and the place is still and quiet. Light spills in from the kitchen window, bathing the room in amber. I sit back and admire the spectacle for a moment, when I notice Nancy, lying on the windowsill, pointedly ignoring me.

Gwyn's cat. She had said she rescued her from an abusive relationship. Glancing at some fading scratches on my arm, earned by simply trying to pick the cat up, I wonder who the abuser really was.

As I am thinking this, Nancy turns her head, staring at me through narrowed eyes. "That's right. It was me. Remember that."

I spend the afternoon looking at job postings online. That evening, Gwyn and I discuss the dream.

"Maybe it's nothing," she says.

"It's never nothing," I say.

Gwyn frowns. "I have a lot of strange dreams, Floyd. If I thought each one meant something, I think I'd go crazy."

"This is different. I don't dream often. It had been a few years before this one happened—since before we met."

"Then, why now?"

I think about this. I don't know why the dreams stopped in the first place, let alone why they have returned. I don't control them, at least, not consciously. I shrug.

"Okay, say the dream means something," Gwyn says. "What next?"

"I wait."

Arched eyebrow.

Sighing, I look out the window at the fading light. "It's never just one."