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he unremembered part of their shared dream。
That's what keeps him where he is and makes him take the telephone even though he is sweltering； roasting； fucking melting。
'Duddits；' he says； and even his voice sounds hot。 'It's really okay。 I'm gonna let you talk to Henry again； it's super…hot in here and I have to get a breath of fresh…'
Duddits interrupts him； his voice strong and urgent。 'Oh…oh…ow！ Ohee； oh…oh…ow！ Ay！ Ay！ Isser AY！'
They have always understood his gabble from the very first； and Jonesy understands it now： Don't go out！ Jonesy； don't go out！ Gray！ Gray！ Mister GRAY！
Jonesy's mouth drops open。 He looks past the heat…shimmering stove； down the aisle where Beaver's hungover father is now making a listless examination of the canned beans； past Mrs Gosselin at the old scrolled cash register； and out the front window。 That window is dirty； and it's filled with signs advertising everything from Winston cigarettes and Moosehead Ale to church suppers and Fourth of July picnics that happened back when the peanut…farmer was still President 。 。 。 but there's still enough glass for him to look through and see the thing that's waiting for him outside。 It's the thing that came up behind him while he was trying to hold the bathroom door closed； the thing that has snatched his body。 A naked gray figure standing beside the Citgo pump on its toeless feet； staring at him with its black eyes。 And Jonesy thinks： It's not how they really are； it's just the way we see them。
As if to emphasize this； Mr Gray raises one of his hands and brings it down。 From the tips of his three fingers； little specks of reddish…gold float upward like thistle。
Byrus； Jonesy thinks。
As if it were a magic word in a fairy…tale； everything freezes。 Gosselin's Market bees a still…life。 Then the color drains out of it and it bees a sepia…toned photograph。 His friends are growing transparent and fading before his eyes。 Only two things still seem real： the heavy black receiver of the pay phone； and the heat。 The stifling heat。
'Ay UH！' Duddits cries into his ear。 Jonesy hears a long； choking intake of breath which he remembers so well； it is Duddits readying himself to speak as clearly as he possibly can。 'Ownzy！ Ownzy； ake UH！ Ake UH！ Ake
2
up！ Wake up！ Jonesy； ake up！
Jonesy raised his head and for a moment could see nothing。 His hair； heavy and sweat…clotted； hung in his eyes。 He brushed it away； hoping for his own bedroom … either the one at Hole in the Wall； or； even better； the one back home in Brookline … but no such luck。 He was still in the office at Tracker Brothers。 He'd fallen asleep at the desk and had dreamed of how they'd called Duddits all those years ago。 That had been real enough； but not the stuporous heat。 If anything； Old Man Gosselin had always kept his place cold； he was chintzy that way。 The heat had crept into his dream because it was hot in here； Christ； it had to be a hundred degrees； maybe a hundred and ten。
Furnace has gone nuts； he thought； and got up。 Or maybe the place is on fire。 Either way； I have to get out。 Before I roast。
Jonesy went around the desk； barely registering the fact that the desk had changed； barely registering the feel of something brushing the top of his head as he burned toward the door。 He was reaching for the knob with one hand and the lock with the other when he remembered Duddits in the dream； telling him not to go out； Mr Gray was out there waiting。
And he was。 Right outside this door。 Waiting in the storehouse of memories； to which he now had total access。
Jonesy spread his sweaty fingers on the wood of the door。 His hair fell down over his eyes again； but he barely noticed。 'Mr Gray；' he whispered。 'Are you out there？ You are； aren't you？'
No response； but Mr Gray was； all right。 He was standing with his hairless rudiment of a head cocked and his glass…black eyes fixed on the doorknob； waiting for it to turn。 Waiting for Jonesy to e bursting out。 And then…？
Goodbye annoying human thoughts。 Goodbye distracting and disturbing human emotions。
Goodbye Jonesy。
'Mr Gray； are you trying to smoke me out？'
Still no answer。 Jonesy didn't need one。 Mr Gray had access to all the controls； didn't he？ Including the ones that controlled his temperature。 How high had he pushed it？ Jonesy didn't know； but he knew it was still going up。 The band around his chest was hotter and heavier than ever； and he could hardly breathe。 His temples were pounding。
The window。 What about the window？
Feeling a burst of hope； Jonesy turned in that direction； putting his back to the door。 The window was dark now … so much for the eternal afternoon in October of 1978 … and the driveway which ran up the side of Tracker Brothers was buried under shifting drifts of snow。 Never； even as a child； had snow looked so inviting to Jonesy。 He saw himself bursting through the window like Errol Flynn in some old pirate movie； saw himself charging into the snow and then throwing himself into it； bathing his burning face in its blessed white chill…
Yes； and then the feel of Mr Gray's hands closing around his neck。 Those hands had only three digits each； but they would be strong； they would choke the life out of him in no time。 If he even cracked the window； tried to let in some of the cold night air； Mr Gray would be in and battening on him like a vampire。 Because that part of JonesyWorld wasn't safe。 That part was conquered territory。
Hobson's choice。 Fucked either way。
'e out。' Mr Gray at last spoke through the door； and in Jonesy's own voice。 'I'll make it quick。 You don't want to roast in there 。 。 。 or do you？'
Jonesy suddenly saw the desk standing in front of the window； the desk that hadn't even been here when he first found himself in this room。 Before he'd fallen asleep it had just been a plain wooden thing； the sort of bottom…of…the…line model you might buy at Office Depot if you were on a budget。 At some point … he couldn't remember exactly when … it had gained a phone。 Just a plain black phone； as utilitarian and undecorative as the desk itself。
Now； he saw； the desk was an oak rolltop； the twin of the one in his Brookline study。 And the phone was a blue Trimline； like the one in his office at Jay。 He wiped a palmful of piss…warm sweat off his forehead； and as he did it he saw what he had brushed with the top of his head。
It was the dreamcatcher。
The dreamcatcher from Hole in the Wall。
'Holy shit；' he whispered。 'I'm decorating the place。'
Of course he was； why not？ Didn't even prisoners on Death Row decorate their cells？ And if he could add a desk and a dreamcatcher and a Trimline phone in his sleep； then maybe Jonesy closed his eyes and concentrated。 He tried to call up an image of his study in Brookline。 For a moment this gave him trouble； because a question intruded： if his memories were out there； how could he still have them in here？ The answer； he realized； was probably simple。 His memories were still in his head； where they had always been。 The cartons in the storeroom were what Henry might call an externalization； his way of visualizing all the stuff to which Mr Gray had access。
Never mind。 Pay attention to what needs doing。 The study in Brookline。 See the study in Brookline。
'What are you doing？' Mr Gray demanded。 The smarmy self…confidence had left his voice。 'What the doodlyfuck are you doing？'
Jonesy smiled a little at that … he couldn't help it … but he held onto his image。 Not just the study； but one wall of the study 。 。 。 there by the door leading into the little half…bath 。 。 。 yes； there it was。 The Honeywell thermostat。 And what was he supposed to say？ Was there a magic word； something like alakazam？
Yeah。
With his eyes still closed and a trace of a smile still on his sweat…streaming face； Jonesy whispered： 'Duddits。'
He opened his eyes and looked at the dusty； nondescript wall。
The thermostat was there。
3
'Stop it！' Mr Gray shouted； and even as Jonesy crossed the room he was amazed by the familiarity of that voice； it was like listening to one of his own infrequent tantrums （the wild disorder of the kids' rooms was a likely f