Charlie came by today. I showed him what I had written so far of this manuscript. He sat there at my desk, burning through my cigarettes, reading every page. When he was done he didn’t say anything, but began to pace back and forth as far as my small space would allow. "Where is he?" he said finally. "I don’t know," I said. He went back to pacing. Suddenly he stopped and looked me in the face and said, "He never said anything like this to me, ever." "Are you hungry?" I said. "I haven’t eaten any breakfast yet." "Well eat," said Charlie, and he went back to pacing. I was going to tell him all I had in the house was rice and white flour. But I didn’t say anything. Again Charlie stopped pacing, gripped my shoulders at my place at the edge of my bed, and said, "This manuscript is just what we need. It’s all we need! This manuscript is exactly what we need." I don’t think he knew he was repeating himself. When he was done, I said, "Need for what?" "The war between sleep and wakefulness," said Charlie. "Do you know what they’ll do if they find out about it? One of these days one of these hookers on South Broadway is going to get picked up, and she’ll never be seen again. A few nights later you’ll wake up in your apartment, not remembering a thing about the past two days, and that hooker will be dead on that bed right there." He kicked my bed with his right foot. "All copies of everything you’ve ever written will be destroyed, and all the files on your computer will be replaced by child porn. And just after you wake up, when you’re starting to panic and wonder what happened, the police will bust down your door. This manuscript," he brought his flat hand down on the manuscript sitting on my desk, "this manuscript is just what we need, and they know it—we could all end up dead because of it." Charlie went back to pacing. I picked up the cigarettes on my desk and started to smoke. I thought Charlie must be psychotic. Finally he stopped pacing again and said, "I know what to do—I know exactly what to do. Give me a copy, one on disk, one on paper. I’ll put them into a safe place. It may mean my death—but we can’t let them put the fear in us. I’ll make sure the manuscript is safe. Give me a copy." I didn’t say anything to him. I kept smoking my cigarette until it was gone. I just wanted to get something to eat. I went to my computer, inserted a disk, and copied the manuscript onto it. Then I handed Charlie the copy I had printed for him to read, and said, "There." Without a word, like a spy, he hid these in his large coat pockets, and scurried off from my apartment, a look of terror on his face.