Walking around the station is like re-entering his dream; his legs seem to be moving on their own, with no directions from the control room. He kicks aside a deserted oil can. Havoline, of course. He wants to pause at the corner of the cinderblock building long enough to visualize seeing nothing, nothing at all, but his legs carry him around without a pause. They are relentless. The rusty trash barrel is there, overturned and spilling its crap. The dog is there, too. It’s standing at the edge of the corn, looking at him. Damn mutt was waiting for me, Danny thinks. It knew I was coming.
