Chapter 2

Samantha had been sitting at the end of a long oak bar with scuffs and dings from 40 years of pennant races lost and super bowls unvisited. Broken glass would occasionally find it's way onto a freshly cleaned floor from bottle smashed against the underside of the bar weeks before. Despite the turmoil, Samantha sat at the corner or the bar with her back to the wall closest to the entrance. A glimpse out the front window over her left should was all she would allow herself as any break from her biology masters coursework she chose to study on Wednesday afternoons at Tadwick's on 3rd and Stratman. Tadwick's was known for it's middle ground draft beer pricing and less than adequate food quality. It also was a locals bar that few of the college crowd cared to visit even when Tadwick's extended it's last call a full hour past the other local bars.

On a day when she found her focus constantly shifting to the sun peaking in through the half open shutters on the first temperate day in April, Glen was enjoying his first afternoon of the first job from which he had ever been laid off at 27 years old. His mood was hampered by a lack of alcohol flooding his veins and seeping into his brain. Samantha found herself unable to find a reason to return to her books after she observed Glen smoothly mimic a head count of the number of guys at a nearby table before ordering four shots of whiskey only to down them in a sixty second hell-storm by himself.

"Alcohol is a gateway drug to vomit, you know." Samantha had spent her high school life skipping parties with the boozing teenage crowds to get a full ride to the ivy league school of her choice. She continued this trend moving her way into graduate school debt free. Even as focused of a student as she was, every one has a slight draw to a Jerry Springer episode bound to unfold in person.

"I can afford vomit. I can't afford the drinks. That's why these are on their tab." Glen flicks his thumb towards the corner table of three men in their fifties with heads inches from the table and gaining ground with every nod of a head.

"Well, you should moderate at least or you'll load all of the alcohol into one shot through your blood stream. It could send your heart racing at a standstill which could lead to arrhythmia and possible heart failure. That's where the real beasts get into your life. I'm sure your current predicament can't be nearly as bad as that."

A beast is what she used to refer to health problems in the future. She had spewed a line of garbage with the hopes that she might convince him to not become a total jack ass before she could get a good story out him. "Beast" was the one word she should not have used. Glen would etch those words into his brain for the next five years as the last sounds he heard of normalcy.

The thing about being fired before lunch is that a lack of income cuts a man's hunger in an instant. Glen had not considered this before the influx of alcohol hit his empty stomach. Combined with a health threat running through his addled brain, the words he was now hearing sent him into a panic displaying itself as simple fainting. His head would have slammed into the ground had he not been sitting on a stool close enough to the bar for his feet to catch as he lurched backwards towards the floor. Nobody at the table noticed or made any indication they were anything more than bourbon scented decorations. Only Samantha came to his side to check on him. The cold ground was not a valid replacement for the bag of ice he would need later, but the heat from his head allowed a slight look of steam linger for a second before coming up to a balance of temperature.

Glen had his first unconscious moment with a skipped beat. Blakely had just entered the building.

Chapter 1

His heart stopped beating for a moment. One brief moment. Still it was enough to let the demons in. Glen's heart condition was a common yet rare one. Millions of people live normal lives without any knowledge that an occasional beat is skipped. There is no tingling in the arm. There are no chest pains. Just a slight pause before business as usual.

Glen is a bit analytic about his health at 32 years old. Not a hypochondriac, just analytical. He has spent his life learning the bare minimum about his body and making assumptions that have not caused him any damage. Not to this point in his thirty second year on the planet. Scrapes and bruises were not a big deal. Glen's immune system could handle those minor things as long as he wasn't rolling in toxic sludge or dining at Taco Bell on tainted lettuce or green onions.

Glen lived his life without much notice of his body until something did not function as it should. When he bumped his ankle on the coffee table at Trent's parents' house in the 7th grade, he couldn't recall if he had heard a slight pop or if he had felt a snap. He knew his ankle hurt but he could still walk on it. As long as he didn't let a diagnosis slip by his brain, Glen felt in control of his life. The first 27 were smooth. Smooth until Samantha came along. Before the old woman on the corner started pointing nervously as he passed, muttering to herself.

"That one dreams of demons, he does."

If only he could lose them again when he wakes.