The angel called to her, with Sarah Uer's voice, "Come with me. No time to talk about it." Smaller than Benicia, the angel lifted her out of her bed as if she were light as a backful of air.

Then Benicia was somewhere else. Wherever it was, there were a lot of angels gathered about her. One of them even looked something like Pleione, with grey wings, a mostly grey outfit showing even more leg than her Pleione's cheerleader costume, gleaming silver or maybe platinum jewelry with sea blue stones here and there . . .

Another angel spoke. This one held something glowing so brightly that it washed out her face and form, except for the nether ends of her long black gown and the tips of her jet black wings. "You must help us." The voice was rich, penetrating, unearthly . . . and yet it reminded of Benicia of Sarah's mother, somehow. "I know you are not ready, but there is no more time."

"Ready for what?" Benicia found herself saying.

A large angel flew up to her. She held a child in her arms, a boy big enough for kindergarten at least. She shifted the child into one arm; he did not protest, or show the least sign of fright. With her freed hand the big angel guided Benicia's hands onto his cornsilk hair. As this was done, for some reason Benicia fixed for a moment on the greens: green skirt, green trim, green gems, green eyes . . . green crystal spheres at the ends of her hair tie which made the base of the angel's auburn mare's tail that floated free, as if they were underwater . . .

"Feel how the boy is, what he is," commanded the Sarah's- mother-voice. "Now, put your hands on the Earth."

Benicia went down. Again, it seemed something like swimming underwater . . . She grounded softly, seeing her soft white boots sink into the soggy turf. Boots? She knelt down, feeling the soil under the grass give way, turn into mud as she compressed out what air was left. She pushed her white-gloved hands onto the earth, into it. Gloves? She took in the earth, the chill on the top, the deeper cold below, the lesser cold further down . . . The clean smells of moist soil and wet living grass, mixed in with other things . . . worm casts, natural . . . worms, driven to the surface by the wetness to breath . . . bird droppings . . . a days-dead squirrel perhaps two hundred yards away . . .

"The boy's sister is lost. Ask the Earth to find her," the voice commanded.

More images and smells came . . . Benicia found herself speaking once more. "That way," she pointed. "Far that way. In a small room . . . foul air. Very little comes in, and it smells of cigarettes, liquor . . . and crystal meth."

"Does she live?" This was the big angel with the child.

"Yes. She sleeps."

"Is there another girl there? An older one?"

"There was someone else . . . her scent is still strong. Some of her warmth is still on the bed."

"We must hurry!" said the big one.

Hands pressed gently on Benicia's temples. "Think as hard as you can about where the little girl is," commanded the Voice.

Benicia noticed that there was also a bright light behind her, casting a shadow . . . her shadow. It had wings.

Then--

"And then what?" prompted Dr Watanabe, still scribbling.

"And then nothing I can really remember now. I do know I was dreaming about something else when Aunt Lucy woke me up for dinner."

"Dinner?" Scribble, scribble. "So you had this dream in daytime?" Scribble, scribble.

"Yes. I fell asleep while I was reading."

"Oh." Scribble, scribble, scribble. "What were you reading?"

"A book about William Jennings Bryan. I had to do an assignment on him."

"Mmmm." Scribble. "Not a subject completely devoid of interest. Irving Wallace wrote a nice piece about him. It's in 'They Also Ran.'" Scribble, scribble.

"Yeah, I found that. But I needed two more sources. No encyclopedias, either."

"Mmmm, sounds like your History teacher is old-fashioned." Scribble.Are you sure you don't remember more about it?"

"Yes, I'm sure I don't remember any more about it."

"Mmmm." Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble. "What do you think about this dream, Ms. Swainson?"

"Beringer."

Scribble, scribble, scribble. "Sorry, forgot." Scribble. "What does this dream mean to you? Why does it seem important? Or does it?" Scribble, scribble.

"I don't know what it means. It just seemed so real . . . Can't get it out of my head."

Scribble, scribble. "But you aren't frightened by this dream, are you."

"No. No, it was just weird, except for . . . "

"Except for what?"

"Something about that little room I saw at the end . . . there was something creepy about it."

"Creepier than the smell of methamphetamine smoke?"

"Yes, something more than that . . . I can't explain it."

"Do you use methamphetamines?"

"No."

"But you know what it smells like."

"Yeah. I've been around people using it."

"Your friends?"

"No. Listen, are you a shrink or a cop?"

"I'm a 'shrink,' Ms. Beringer. Nothing you say to me is ever going to be revealed except perhaps in an anomymous case study."

"I'm that crazy? I should be flattered, I guess."

Scribble, scribble, scribble. "Have you been around a methamphetamine smoker recently?"

"No. I haven't smelled meth smoke in, oh . . . a year and a half."

Scribble. "Were you particularly close to a meth abuser?"

"Close enough for him to stick . . . in my mind, you might say. He was an ass, and I dumped him, and basically forgot about him."

Scribble, scribble. "Something happen lately that could remind you of him?"

"You mean like sex?"

Scribble, scribble. "If it reminds you of your meth smoker."

"I told you about the party already. Sorry, no more sex since then, Doc."

Scribble, scribble, scribble. "One more thing. What day did you have this dream?

"Last Sunday."

Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble . . . flop. The tiny sound of the notebook closing signaled the end of the session, and Benicia got up from the couch--Watanabe had an actual couch, though he didn't insist she use it. But it seemed to make things easier . . . Maybe Freud was right about that one too, after all.

"I got your test results back, Ms. Beringer. You seem to have avoided catching anything from your little Halloween adventure. Seem is the important word here. There is still a small but significant chance you have contracted HIV even if the tests did not show it."

"Well, we'll wait and see then. Getting on my case now won't do any good," she said, moving toward the door.

"Don't go yet," said Dr. Watanabe. "I'm not finished."

Benicia Swainson stopped, turned around to face the doctor, and asked, and partly demanded, "What else?"

"You could take a course of prophylactic drugs. If you are infected, they would minimize the infection and delay the onset of symptoms. Perhaps even destroy the infection altogether."

"So why shouldn't I take this wonderful stuff?" asked Benicia. "I guess it's expensive, but is that a problem now? Would you it get you in trouble with Daddy if you don't explain the bill?" Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble. "I don't know. Possibly."

"It's not the same as chemotherapy," said Watanabe, "I think you could function more or less normally. There would probably be some unpleasantness, but . . . "

"But what?"

Dr. Watanabe shook his head. "You are pregnant, Ms. Beringer. The drugs are not safe for a developing fetus. The colleague I've consulted about your possible infection tells me the course has to be started as soon as possible to be effective. So you have two decisions to make, and quickly."

Benicia waited quite a long time before saying anything. "Well. This will make Daddy dear's day, won't it."

"If he knows, perhaps," said Dr. Watanabe. "Perhaps not. Parents can always surprise you, Betty."

"Amen to that," said Betty, breaking into totally inappropriate laughter. Dr. Watanabe thought about that laughter long after she left.

"Well, aren't you going to ask me?" said Betty.

"Ask you what?" countered Pleione.

"Ask me whether or not I'm going to keep it."

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't have to."

"You don't have to?" said Betty. "You started reading minds too?"

"I don't need to read your mind."

"Oh? Why not?" said Betty. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

"Keep it."

"Keep it . . . You're sure."

"Hai, I'm sure."

"To spit in my Daddy's eye?" "Spit" because Pleione was extremely economical with her dirty words, and Betty didn't really like to use them unless there was a special point to make.

"I bet that helps, but that isn't the real reason."

"Oh? What's the reason?"

"Why don't you read my mind?"

"You'd know."

"Maybe not. You are getting better and better."

"Sarah tell you that?"

"Yes."

"So . . . what's the reason?"

"You think it's right to keep it."

Betty couldn't help but read Pleione a bit then, just to clarify . . . but that's exactly what she meant. "Yeah, I guess I do . . . don't know why. You never struck me as a red-hot right- to-lifer."

"Right for you."

"Yeah . . . Yeah."

"Have you told your father yet?"

"No . . . He might know. Dr. Watanabe says he doesn't tell him things like this, and he means it, but if Daddy visits him . . . " She shrugged.

"What do you think he'll do when he finds out?"

"Don't know." Betty shrugged again.

"Do you think your father will want you to give up your baby?"

"When I said I'm going to keep it, I meant--"

"I know what you meant."

"You do? Why?"

"Your father has hurt you by pushing you away," said Pleione. "You don't want to do that to your kid."

"No, I guess not . . . Sarah tell you that one, too?"

"About your father, yes, but I could see it before. There was a lot of truth in the stories you made up about your father before we knew who he was."

"Yeah. Well, if you want to tell a good lie, put in a lot of truth."

"Is that something your father taught you?"

"Yes," said Pleione. "By example."

"I mean, will he try to make you? Auntie Rei says he might be able to."

"Oh, Auntie Rei said that . . . and how would Auntie Rei know I'm pregnant?"

"Maybe from my mother. Rei-san did not say. She said that if you were pregnant, that is what she would expect your father to do."

"But you think she knew . . . and you weren't that surprised when I told you."

"Rei-san can see the future, the way you say your father does.