Foley would keep to the middle of the street, eventually coming to the town proper and an intersection. If he went straight or turned left, he’d go through a business district where all the businesses were haunted the same as the houses. If he turned right, he’d go down a hill to a haunted wharf and pier, where a ghost ship was moored. It was an old three-master in run-down condition, with tattered, hanging sails - almost Disney-esque - and sporting scabs of flaking paint, like ghost ship acne. There was even a haunted bait shop on the pier, though Foley was never clear about what haunted it - the proprietor? Ex-customers? Vengeful merchandise?

He had the dream often and lucid enough to do some exploring around town, remembering the sections he had visited the last time, but no matter which way he went, he would always end up being chased by ghosts, and he would always wake up just before being caught. It was always the same town, too, but the number of ghosts would vary. He would catch glimpses of them from the street flitting past windows, sometimes behind curtains or blinds. They usually left him alone until he trespassed onto their property during his explorations, but the really strange thing was that the ghosts looked almost benign - like they came from a Casper, the Friendly Ghost cartoon. They were white with bland features, no real detail, and always seemed to move several inches above the ground without actually flying. Singer Michael Jackson could be said to fit the same description, but he was a lot scarier. Foley didn’t realize he had gotten attached to the dream until he stopped having it, but the homecoming was a little different from what he might have expected.

Something made him look down, and Gus was there, sitting on the street and calmly looking right back. What are you doing here? Foley asked. Wanna check out the bait shop?

Gus didn’t, so she woke up in Foley’s backpack on the floor. She could see Foley in the early morning light through the flap - he was also on the floor, curled up amid a couple of pillows and covered with a blanket. He was also twitching, which meant he’d wake up soon. She wasn’t crazy about being in Foley’s nightmare, but at least it was better than that other dream where he gradually turned into a fungus. For some reason, he liked that one so much he didn’t even consider it a nightmare. As a cat, Gus couldn’t begin to understand why he would like waving his arms in a breeze just to watch the spoors fly off without even chasing after them, but then she suspected most humans wouldn’t understand that, either. Foley was a breed apart from them and made no sense. That was part of his charm.

As soon as he was awake, he checked his pack to make sure Gus was still there. There was no real reason to think otherwise, and Foley had no idea why he was apprehensive now - it wasn’t as if she could stay in the dream after he woke up.

In any case, he shrugged it off when Cheryl brought a cup of coffee and handed it down to him. Foley was more than grateful - it was 20^th century western civilization’s overwhelming drug of choice as well as one of the few ties left with normal life. It - or something like it - was a staple issued to both armies in the Civil War. It was with the 7^th Cav. on the morning of the Little Big Horn, and a part of every freezing morning endured by the Battling Bastards of Bastogne. It was more than a beverage - it was a necessary fix. Prisons served coffee, and a substitute was even supplied to concentration camp victims by their tormentors. As long as there was some kind of coffee, there was at least some kind of life, and he remembered the quality of his days before and after the Plague by whether or not he had his morning coffee. Most survivors would have thought that trite, self-centered, and even blasphemous, but it kept Foley sane.

"I think our guests really like the cappuccino machine in the kitchen," Cheryl joked. "They won’t let me near it. I had to nuke this with the microwave we brought upstairs."

"Then they’re still downstairs?" Foley asked, then took a sip. Cheryl nodded. "Well … where were they going to go, anyway?" he asked rhetorically. "Motel 6 ? They know we’re here." He laughed, but saw that Cheryl’s smile was forced, grim as it was. She doesn’t have enough experience with them, yet, he thought, looking away at the thin coating of frost on the windows. "You know something? It’s getting cold."