Summitt

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A girl ran toward him across a rocky beach, crying out in pain, which was wrong, of course, because the day had been lovely except for the flames leaping for her through the slanting rain.

The stewardess moved the pillow behind his shoulder. “Would you fasten your seat belt, please, Mr. Selby? We’ll be landing in Memphis in just a few minutes.” She smiled at him. “I’m afraid you had the wrong girl or the wrong dream, Mr. Selby. I’m a Monica, not a Sarah.”

He had spoken her name aloud, Harry Selby realized. Shouted it, perhaps. That hadn’t happened so often lately, but he couldn’t be sure since he had slept alone since then.

There must have been something of the dream and Sarah in his eyes when he walked through Memphis’s main terminal to the Avis station, because a man he brushed by said, “Dammit, watch it,” but stopped and stood looking after Selby, hands tightening on the shoulders of his small son.

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