Ohara screams and becomes suddenly aware of the subdued red glow of his 
bedroom, of lying in his bed, gripping the sheets, drenched in rank sweat, his 
hands shaking, his heart pounding wildly. He’s been dreaming again. He knows too
well the exegesis of the monster, the embodiment of the horror that haunts him 
still, not only when he sleeps. He’s been living with it since Seattle, going on
three years. Will it never end?