Much to his surprise, Theodore awoke several miles from his house. A sunrise to rival any motel art rested over suburbia welcoming him to consciousness. As he became aware that he was walking, the motion ceased, leaving him on the corner of Douglas and Rink, dressed in a tank top, dingy boxers, and a now hastily closed robe.

“Shh, go back to sleep.”

The voice was pleasant, vaguely female, and only disturbing in the fact that it came from nowhere in particular. It may have been in his head, or perhaps near it. He wasn’t sure.

“I c-can’t go back to sleep. I’m stand-d-ding on a street corner.”

“Don’t argue. It’s unseemly. Now back to sleep. Everything is under control.”

Senses reeling, and reason taking an ill-timed holiday Theodore looked around, finding little more than a typical American neighborhood. A woman in curlers two houses down was giving him a queer look.

He didn’t blame her. Only when he shrugged to accept his odd fate did he notice the damp feeling on his shoulder.

“Martin?”