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The depression which had been circling him ever since he left The Blue Door in Portland circling the way wolves often circled campfires in the adventure stories he had read as a boy, suddenly fell upon him.
He would stride upstairs, bellowing Brian’s name, and the roses on the wallpaper would wilt when that hangman’s shadow passed over them.
The first threads of worry, fine as cobweb, drifted through her mind.
(the tendons in his neck creaking like rusty screen-door springs)
It was funny stuff, sanity. When it was taken away, you didn’t know it. You didn’t feel its departure. You only really knew it when it was restored, like some rare wild bird which lived and sang within you not by decree but by choice.
