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feet carefully on the mellow hardwood floors。 He was intrigued by the idea of a house with good karma； a house that held memories of love and music。
He pulled the heavy wooden door of the bathroom shut behind him； tugged his wet shirt over his head and dropped it on the floor。 It was just a plain black tee like almost every other shirt Trevor owned； he had one with a pocket； but that was getting fancy。 The little Whirling Disc man was a radical departure for him。
Trevor unbound his ponytail； leaned over the old clawfoot bathtub and wrung a stream of water from his hair。 Then he rumpled it with a towel and let it hang loose to dry。 It rippled halfway down his back； ginger like Bobby's； shot through with a few strands of pale gold like Momma's。
The mirror in the bathroom made him nervous； he had a strong sense of someone looking back at him from its depths。 He put his lips close against the wavy silver surface； whispered 〃Who is it？〃 But nothing answered。 There was only his own high pale forehead melding with its own reflection； his own eyes merging into one misshapen transparent orb that stared mercilessly back at him； his own long somber face dissolving to mist at the edges。 He stood back from the mirror and watched his nipples shiver erect； his skin prickle into goosebumps。
Trevor pulled the Whirling Disc shirt over his head and hurried back down the hall to the living room； where Terry was just firing up a fat； pungent joint。
〃I don't suppose you do this？〃 Terry asked after a long toke。 Blue smoke leaked out of his nostrils and the corners of his mouth； narrowing his eyes against it； he looked sybaritic and handsomer than before。 Trevor hesitated。 Terry held out the joint； waggled it enticingly。
What the hell； Trevor decided； and reached out to take it with his left hand。 He'd smoked pot before； but not for a long time； and never much。 It had been one of Bobby's drugs。 But pot had never made Bobby puke and sob like a baby； had never made him pick up the hammer or whispered in his ear how he might use it。 And Bobby had smoked it when he was drawing。 Trevor thought it might be good to try some right before he went in the house。
So he wrapped his lips around the wrinkled end of the joint； slightly damp with Terry's spit but not unpleasantly so； and took a deep drag。
Big mistake。
He hadn't eaten anything since Kinsey's dubious noodle soup last night at the club； hadn't drunk anything but a few Cokes and a warm； noxious Jolt。 Suddenly his stomach felt like a small pouch of cracked and shriveled leather； his tissues and the meat of his brain felt scorched by the fire that burned inside him。
The joint slipped from his fingers and skittered down his arm； leaving a long singed trail along the old tracework of scars。 He heard Terry say something； felt his knees begin to buckle。
Big round bursts of light appeared in front of his eyes； blue and red and sparkly silver； spinning like crazy constellations。 Then blackness waltzed in and wiped them all away。
Terry couldn't believe it when the kid collapsed on his living…room floor。 He had seen stoners toked to the point of zombification； staring at a TV screen as if it might bring nirvana。 He had seen drinkers gone to drooling stupor in every sort of promising position and location； including on the toilet。 He had even seen a nodding junkie or two。 But never in his twenty…eight years had Terry Buckett watched anyone pass out from one toke on a joint。
He retrieved the burning spliff from the folds of Trevor's shirt； patted down the kid's scrawny chest to make sure no stray embers were setting him aflame； checked out the glowing end of the joint but saw nothing amiss； smelled nothing weird。 The pot couldn't be laced with anything： Terry had already rolled three or four joints out of this particular bag； which came from a trusted source。 His own buzz was just starting to tickle the edges of his brain； leafy and benign。 It was nothing but good Carolina homegrown。 This pale trembling youth must be in pretty sorry shape。
He checked to see if Trevor was breathing； gently pulled up one of his eyelids to make sure he hadn't had a brain embolism or something。 The silvery…pale eye glared at Terry； making him think Trevor was in there somewhere； not too far away。 As he wedged a cushion from the sofa under Trevor's lolling head； the kid started muttering； 〃。 。 。 m'okay 。 。 。 fine 。 。 。〃
〃Yeah； you look great；〃 said Terry。 He went to the kitchen； found a dishrag that was mostly clean； ran it under cold water； went back and draped it over Trevor's face。 Trevor raised a limp hand to swipe at it； got halfway； then let the hand fall like a dead white bird by his side。
〃Hang loose；〃 Terry told him。 〃Don't go away。〃 He paused beside the stereo and scanned the portion of his vast record collection he had already managed to cart over here； wondering what music Trevor might like to surface from oblivion with。 Jazz was one of the few categories Terry's collection lacked； he liked it okay but had never accumulated any of his own； had always vaguely figured it was the sort of music you had to be an expert on to really appreciate。
Finally he selected an old Tom Waits album； dropped the needle on it； and returned to the kitchen to be a gracious host。
Trevor woke with a damp sour…smelling membrane over his face and a strange guttural voice groaning in his ears。 He clawed frantically at the membrane and it came away in his hands； cold and dank and foul。 How long had he been gone？ It felt like minutes but could have been an hour； no more； the light hadn't changed。
The walls seemed to tower toward an infinitely high point overhead。 They were decorated with vintage acid rock posters whose lurid colors swirled and gyred； the bands' names taunting him： Jimi Hendrix Experience； Captain Beefheart； Strawberry Alarm Clock。 All had been in his parents' record collection。
The room was furnished much like his childhood home in Austin： bookshelves of cinder blocks and particleboard； fortable sofa with sagging cushions and the nap on the arms worn thin； table that looked like a refugee from someone else's trash pile。 Early Starving Artist； or Poverty Deco。 Trevor saw parts of Terry's drum set strewn about the room； a cymbal in the corner； a snare propped between a bookcase and the doorway that led to the hall。 There was only one difference between this stranger's house and the one he remembered living in with his family： this one felt somehow safe。 His parents' home had felt safe once too； but that was so long ago Trevor could barely remember。
He tried to sit up and felt his brain starting to spiral off into the ether again。 A snippet of dialogue from Krazy Kat drifted through his mind： Just imegine having your 〃ectospasm〃 running around william & nilliam among the unlimitless etha'…golla； it's imbillivibilImbillivibil it was。 Yet it would seem he'd swooned in Terry's living room； or whoever's living room this was。 How fucking embarrassing。 Terry didn't seem to be around； and Trevor thought that when he felt able to stand he might just slink out of this safe place； walk the rest of the way into town； then out to Violin Roa