The intensity of the darkness pressed in on him, hard to breathe ... He groped to stuff the hat into the coat's pocket, then hauled the wickedly heavy cloak over his head. Off! The relief only lasted a moment. Rolling the bulky fabric into as small a bundle as he could, he then tried to jam it into a bag retrieved from the back pocket of his jeans.

The blasted thing did not want to fit! Sweat ran into his eyes, stinging them. Another wave of anxiety washed over him. He was running out of air he was sure of it. He was going to suffocate in what could've passed for a coal mine shaft. Easy, Darm. It's only a few feet to the alley. You know that. Chill.

His hand went out, brushing against a smooth wall. All he had to do was follow it and not make a sound.

The end of the path he was traveling came so suddenly he banged his face on it. Quiet! He felt for the tiny square indent - there! He fumbled around for the key. It had to be in there! Where - oh. A hole. There was a hole in his pocket - it was all he could do shut down the urge to scream out loud. How would he ever find the little thing? How could he be such a dope?

He caught himself - there had to be a way. The lighter - oh, blast! It wasn't there either! His hands ran over the fabric of his pants. He brought it, he knew he did.

Digging his fingers into his jeans again, he wiggled them down as far as they could go. Nothing. No - wait! There it was! Not the lighter - the key. A loud sigh made it past his lips and he chomped down on the bottom one - he had to be quiet!

He scratched around for what seemed like hours before the end of it slipped into the opening meant for it. Gently - it was so small, he was afraid it might bend, break. Which way did he have to turn it? Clock hands ticked in his mind - there was a little resistance, then an almost inaudible click.

The sudden light was no better to him than the pitch-black had been and he jumped back. What if there was someone in the alley? He forced himself to poke his head out far enough for one squinting, watering eyeball to survey - no one.

He stepped out, keeping his back to what looked like the aftermath of a bomb blast, his eyes running up and down the lane. Alone. Not that it mattered now. He was the only one who could see the mess. "Utep, Utep," he whispered. There was a slight thud as the wall closed over.

He didn't bother to check, just took a deep breath as he turned to his left and strolled down the alley. The straps of the bag were clenched tight in his hand, one sleeve of the velvety, black robe hanging out and flapping free.

City air was bad, but today? Spectacular. Beyond spectacular. Magnificent. His feet seemed to float above the pavement as he relished every delicious suck of it. He snickered. Maybe he should look to see if he was floating - nuts. Maybe he was just getting a little too dramatic again ... Yeah. And get his head examined too. He was a madman to go into that place, no matter what he'd gain by it. One corner of his mouth curled up. Time to get over that, Darm. Man. Seriously.

***

The cramp in his hand wouldn't quit. He had to do something else with it for a while. Grinning, he shook his head at himself and slid the desktop toward him, giving it a sharp snap upwards. As he pushed it back down flat, the false drawer disappeared, paper, quills, inkwell, and all. Nothing to see but a faint line. Couldn't be too careful. Someone could break in. Yeah. And steal his what? Underwear? His precious standard-issue dishes?

The bathroom door, a gaudy purple, was half-open, a holey, frayed towel gracing it. And the plain, black door out of here was right next to it - soon. Patience.

Get the kinks out and get it finished. He stripped down and washed up - the mark was still there. He didn't bother trying to get it off. A hunch sneaked from the back of his mind and he shivered. He was leaving here. He didn't want to think about the mark - and he needed to eat but he didn't want to do that either. Get it done and get going.

Darm went straight back to the desk and the papers re-appeared with a few tugs. He pulled the curtain closed tighter as he sat down. Wasn't in the mood to give his neighbors a free peep-show. The black feeling came again. All the years he'd resisted the call - now it was all for nothing. A single tear ran down his cheek then it was gone with one rough swipe. The words in his head screamed at him, drowning out his disappointment in himself. He had to understand them.

The price would simply have to be paid. He squeezed his fingers into a hard fist, relaxed them, picked up the quill, dunked it in the ink - and went at the paper like a maniac.

***

Darm lifted his head from the desk. Light spilled in around the edges of the drapes. Every muscle in his back protested as he straightened up. He tried, but the fingers on his left hand refused to move. Slowly, he got to his feet. Even taking his time sent his head spinning. When had he eaten last? His eyes returned to the desk. Every sheet of paper was filled with small, scratchy script.

He hobbled to the kitchenette sink against the far wall, his spine creaking and complaining with each step. Running the tap, he stuck his mouth into the flow, drinking deep. He wiped the drips with the back of his arm, the bleachy, tinny taste of the city water lingering. Food. No. If he was finished, he'd get it on the road. If he was finished, this was his last day here - his last hour here.

Stretching, gently at first, he built up to just short of agony, and held it. Then he let himself go as limp as he could without falling down and padded back to the desk. He studied the pages, one by one, painstakingly hauling each precious word out of his head, out of his memory, and matching it to what was in front of his face. He was done. He was free.

The black feeling overtook him. That would never be again. Never free. He was loose. Unencumbered. At liberty. Blowing around on the four winds. Not free. No such thing as freedom.

He went the few steps across the room and slid the sleeping mat aside with his foot. The floor underneath had seen better days, the finish peeling, broken seams packed solid with brown grunge.

"Petu, Petu." A chunk of the surface vanished, revealing a cavity. He pulled out a small, black metal box and a handful of peculiar metal shapes attached to a round fob. "Utep. Utep."

The floor looked as though nothing had ever disturbed it. His fingers went to his chain, finding the tiny key. Muttering again, it came free of the link that held it. He touched it to the fob, still whispering, and it joined the rest of the strange objects.

He finished stuffing everything into the pack and pulled on his pants and shirt. Rolling up his sleeves, he went to the desk and, one at a time, he placed the papers into the yellow folio.

As he loaded each one in, it disappeared. Thirty of them - all gone. With a satisfied smile, he put the cover back into the empty section of the bag and zipped it shut. The mat, rolled up with a blanket inside, went through the pack's loops.

Oh, nuts. No socks. He took one last look in the dresser drawers, and there, in the back corner of the bottom one, was a lonely pair. Clean. Charmed. A quick glance around, then he was out the door.