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Cream


Sleeper
Devon passed out.
That’s what they told him, anyway.
He’d been waiting in line like everyone else, and next thing he knew he was the center of
attention for a ring of bystanders, a pair of old ladies were rubbing his arms, and the bank
manager was asking if he needed an ambulance.
The worst part, initially, was the embarrassment. But on the drive home an icy fear
crimped the back of his neck, made his shoulders lock up and his elbows seize, made his hands
sweat all over the wheel. What if it happened again? What if it happened while driving? He
could be barreling along nicely, completely absorbed in the intricacies of lane surfing, and—
BAM: dead man. Or find he’d unconsciously plowed though a crosswalk full of horrified
lunchtime toddlers. Splattered innocence, crippled joy. The image was so appalling Devon had a
phantom episode, imagining, in one missed heartbeat, that he’d blacked out again, and was
surfacing anew.
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