"Monica," John whispered, a little too loudly. "We have other 
options."

"They want to stay in the same room," Gibson announced to the older 
nun.

"I know," the old woman answered. She turned to face Doggett, whose 
ears had turned red. "We can accommodate you here."

"That isn't necessary," he grunted, shooting Monica a sideways glance.

"If it would make you feel better, you can stay in separate rooms," 
the younger nun said soothingly.

"We wouldn't want to impose..." Doggett said awkwardly, but he was 
interrupted by a flutter of white cloth as the older woman waved her 
arms.

"No imposition at all," she assured them. "I'm sure Gibson would 
welcome another chance to beat an old lady at chess..." She looked 
at Gibson, who blushed and glanced at the chessboard. "Monasteries 
have been accommodating pilgrims for centuries. It's part of our 
mission. You'd be letting us do the opus dei, God's work."

Doggett could see he'd been outvoted, and slumped his shoulders in 
resignation. "Okay... for a day or two, but if there's any sign of 
trouble..."

"There won't be," Gibson said with certainty.

"How do you know? Do you sense something?" Monica asked, the 
gentleness in her voice holding the boy's attention.

Gibson shrugged. "I don't know how I know. I think it's them," he 
said, looking up into the faces of the two nuns. They showed no 
acknowledgement of his suspicions, and Doggett's forehead creased as 
he tried to decide how he felt about this arrangement.

The bedrooms were sparsely furnished, in keeping with the Cistercian 
philosophy of plainness, but the beds were comfortable enough and the 
pilgrims settled in for a well-deserved sleep after a soporific meal 
of rice and beans.

...Sirens blared in his ears as he ran, but as fast as he ran, he 
seemed to be moving backwards, as if going the wrong way on an 
escalator. He could feel his stomach cramping and his chest 
tightening, his running growing more and more strained with each 
step. He reached out into the darkness reaching for something to 
grab as the sirens continued to grow louder. As he flailed his hand 
hit upon something firm yet gentle. He grabbed it, and when he did 
the sirens turned into beautiful a melody, soaring lightly over an 
unfelt breeze. 

He opened his eyes and Monica was there, holding his hand. "You were 
having a nightmare," she said soothingly to the accompaniment of the 
nuns chanting in the distance. "You were kicking the wall."

"Ohhh," he groaned, struggling to find her features in the 
darkness. "I dreamt I was running, and I wasn't getting anywhere... 
there were sirens coming up behind me..."

She stroked his hair in a calming rhythm. "And then?" she asked when 
he paused.

"And then you were there," he squeezed her hand. "And everything was 
alright."

She sighed and continued stroking his hair thoughtfully, but did not 
speak.

"What time is it?" John's gravelly voice said when the nuns had 
paused.

"About three," she answered. "Matins."

The singing resumed, and Doggett sighed in recognition. "Matins... 
they warned us about that. I didn't hear the bell..."

"I didn't either. I heard this mad thumping against the wall," 
Monica laughed. "If we hadn't been in a monastery..."

"Monica!" Doggett yelled, a little too loudly. Embarrassed, he 
raised himself on an elbow and whispered. "That's not funny!" But 
even in the darkness she could tell he was smiling.

Their hands became restless, their relaxed massages replaced by 
urgent and sensuous rubbing. Monica pulled free and stood up, then 
bent to caress his cheek. "Good night. Try to be quieter," she 
whispered, then tiptoed out of his room.

Monica awoke with a ribbon of light from the early morning sun 
stroking her cheek. It seemed too early, and her limbs were tired. 
She rolled over and nuzzled into her pillow with a soft groan. A few 
seconds later she heard a soft knock on her door. It was John, his 
hair tousled boyishly and his T-shirt askew over his well-developed 
chest.

"Hi John," she growled softly.

"Mon, did you come to my room last night?" he asked.

She pulled the door backward but John didn't step across the 
threshhold. "Yes, you had a nightmare," she said when she realized 
he wouldn't come in.

"And then what?" he asked.

"We talked for a minute or two, then I came back here. Why?"

He sighed and slumped against the doorjamb. "I barely remember 
that," he said groggily. "But I remember the very vivid dream I had 
after you left."

"Another nightmare?" she asked with concern.

He grinned, the memory of their dream sex even more vivid in her 
presence. "No"

She smiled flirtatiously. "No? Then what was it?" she asked, 
running the back of her hand over his chest.

He grabbed her hand and held it over his heart. The feel of his 
heartbeat was exhilirating, quickening her own pulse. As they looked 
into each other's eyes, she slid closer to him until their faces were 
inches apart. When he could smell her breath, the morning breath 
he'd recently come to love, he reached for the back of her neck and 
pulled her to him for a passionate kiss. She responded eagerly, 
pulling her hand free and sliding it around his waist. They swayed 
for a few liquid moments then leaned against the doorjamb for 
support. They parted, panting slightly through flared nostrils.

"Staying here will drive me crazy," he whispered. "Let's find 
somewhere else to hide out..."