Grey shrugged.

“You’re Grey, right?” The soldier narrowed his eyes. “I’ve seen you.”

Grey put down his fork and swallowed a bite of pie. “Yeah.”

Paulson nodded thoughtfully, like he was deciding if this was a good name or not. His face wore an outward expression of calm, but there was something effortful about this. For a moment his eyes darted to the security camera hanging in the corner over their heads, then found Grey’s face again.

“You know, you fellas don’t say much,” Paulson said. “It’s a little spooky, you don’t mind my saying so.”

Spooky. Paulson didn’t know the half of it. Grey said nothing.

“Mind if I ask you a question?” Paulson lifted his chin toward Grey’s plate. “Don’t let me interrupt. You can go on and finish while we talk.”

“I’m done,” Grey said. “I have to go to work.”

“How’s the pie?”

“You want to ask me about the pie?”

“The pie? No.” Paulson shook his head. “I was just being polite. That would be an example of what’s called small talk.”

Grey wondered what he wanted. The soldiers never said word one to him, and here was this guy, Paulson, giving him etiquette lessons like the cameras weren’t looking straight at them.

“It’s good,” Grey managed. “I like the lemon.”

“Enough with the pie. I couldn’t give two shits about the pie.”

Grey gripped the sides of his tray. “I gotta go,” he said, but as he started to rise, Paulson dropped a hand on his wrist. Grey could feel, in just that one touch, how strong the man was, as if the muscles of his arms were hung on bars of iron.

“Sit. The fuck. Down.”

Grey sat. The room suddenly felt empty to him. He glanced past Paulson and saw that this was so, or nearly: most of the tables were empty. Just a couple of techs on the far side of the room, sipping coffee from throw-away cups. Where had everybody gone?

“You see, we know who you fellas are, Grey,” Paulson said with a quiet firmness. He was leaning over the table, his hand still on Grey’s wrist. “We know what you all did, is what I’m saying. Little boys, or whatever. I say God bless, each to his own gifts. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. You follow me?”

Grey said nothing.

“Not everybody feels the way I do, but that’s my opinion. Last time I checked it was still a free country.” He shifted in his chair, bringing his face even closer. “I knew a guy, in high school? Used to put cookie dough on his joint and let the dog lick it off. So you want to nail some little kid, you go right ahead. Personally I don’t get it, but your business is your business.”

Grey felt ill. “I’m sorry,” he managed. “I really gotta go.”

“Where do you have to go, Grey?”

“Where?” He tried to swallow. “To work. I have to go to work.”

“No you don’t.” Finally releasing Grey’s wrist, Paulson took a spoon from Grey’s tray and began to twirl it on the tabletop with the point of his index finger. “You’ve got three hours till your shift. I can tell time, Grey. We’re chatting here, goddamnit.”

Grey watched the spoon, waiting for Paulson to say something else. He suddenly needed a smoke with every molecule of his body, a force like possession. “What do you want from me?”

Paulson gave the spoon a final spin. “What do I want, Grey? That’s the question, isn’t it? I do want something, you’re right about that.” He leaned toward Grey, making a “come closer” gesture with his index finger. His voice, when he spoke, was just above a whisper. “What I want is for you to tell me about Level Four.”

Grey felt his insides drop, like he’d placed a foot on a step that wasn’t there.

“I just clean. I’m a janitor.”

“Pardon me,” Paulson said. “But no. I don’t buy that for a second.”

Grey thought again of the cameras. “Richards-”

Paulson snorted. “Oh, fuck him.” He looked up at the camera, gave a little wave, then slowly rotated his hand, clenching all but his middle finger. He held it that way for a few seconds.

“You think anybody’s actually watching those things? All day, every day, listening to us, watching what we do?”

“There’s nothing down there. I swear.”

Paulson shook his head slowly; Grey saw that wild look in his eyes again. “We both know that’s bullshit, so can we please? Let’s be honest with each other.”

“I just clean,” Grey said weakly. “I’m just here to work.”

Paulson said nothing. The room was so quiet Grey thought he could hear his own heart beating.

“Tell me something. You sleep okay, Grey?”

“What?”

Paulson’s eyes narrowed with menace. “I’m asking, do… you… sleep… okay?”

“I guess,” he managed. “Sure, I sleep.”

Paulson gave a little fatalistic laugh. He leaned back and rocked his eyes toward the ceiling. “You guess. You guess.”

“I don’t know why you’re asking me this stuff.”

Paulson exhaled sharply. “Dreams, Grey.” He pushed his face close to Grey’s. “I’m talking about dreams. You fellas do dream, don’t you? Well, I sure as hell dream. All goddamn night long. One after the other. I am dreaming some crazy shit.”

Crazy, Grey thought; that just about summed the situation up, right there. Paulson was crazy. The wheels weren’t on the road anymore, the oars were out of the water. Too many months on the mountain, maybe, too many days of cold and snow. Grey had known guys like that in Beeville, fine when they got there but who, before even a few months had gone by, couldn’t string two sentences together that made a lick of sense.

“Want to know what I dream about, Grey? Go on. Take a guess.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Take a fucking guess.”

Grey looked down at the table. He could feel the cameras watching-could feel Richards, somewhere, taking all of this in. He thought: Please. For godsakes. No more questions.

“I don’t… know.”

“You don’t.”

He shook his head, his eyes still averted. “No.”

“Then I’ll tell you,” Paulson said quietly. “I dream about you.”

For a moment neither spoke. Paulson was crazy, Grey thought. Crazy crazy crazy.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered. “There’s really nothing down there.”

He made to leave again, waiting to feel Paulson’s hand on his elbow, stopping him.

“Fine,” Paulson said, and gave a little wave. “I’m done for now. Get out of here.” He twisted in his chair to look up at Grey, standing with his tray. “I’ll tell you a secret, though. You want to hear it?”

Grey shook his head.

“You know those two sweeps who left?”

“Who?”

“You know those guys.” Paulson frowned. “The fat ones. Dumbshit and his friend.”

“Jack and Sam.”

“Right.” Paulson’s eyes drifted. “I never did get the names. I guess you could say the names didn’t come with the deal.”

Grey waited for Paulson to say something else. “What about them?”

“Well, I hope they weren’t friends of yours. Because here’s a little bulletin. They’re dead.” Paulson rose; he didn’t look at Grey as he spoke. “We’re all dead.”

It was dark, and Carter was afraid.

He was somewhere down below, way down; he’d seen four buttons on the elevator, the numbers running backward, like the buttons in an underground garage. By the time they’d put him in there on the gurney, he was woozy and feeling no pain-they’d given him something, some kind of shot that made him sleepy but not actually asleep, so he’d felt it a little, what they were doing to the back of his neck. Cutting there, putting something in. Restraints on his wrists and feet-to make him comfortable, they said. Then they’d wheeled him to the elevator and that was the last thing he remembered, the buttons, and somebody’s finger pushing the one that said L4. The guy with the gun, Richards, had never come back like he’d promised.

Now he was awake, and though he couldn’t say for sure, he felt like he was down, way down in the hole; he was still bound at the wrists and ankles and probably his waist, too. The room was cold and dark, but he could see lights blinking somewhere, he couldn’t tell how far, and hear the sound of a fan blowing air. He couldn’t remember much of the conversation he’d had with the men before they’d brought him down. They’d weighed him, Carter remembered that, and done other things like any doctor would do, taking his blood pressure and asking him to pee in a cup and tapping his knees with the hammer and peering inside his nose and mouth. Then they’d put the tube in the back of his hand-that hurt, that hurt like hell, he remembered saying so, God damn-and hooked the tube up to the bag on the hanger, and the rest was all a blur. He recalled a funny light, glowing bright red on the tip of a pen, and all the faces around him suddenly wearing masks, one of them saying, though he couldn’t tell which one, “This is just the laser, Mr. Carter. You may feel a little pressure.” Now, in the dark, he remembered thinking, before his brain had gone all watery and far away, that God had played one last joke on him and maybe this was his ride to the needle after all. He’d wondered if he’d be seeing Jesus soon or Mrs. Wood or the Devil his own self.