“Come in, you know it’s not locked,” he said without looking up. “Where the hell were you? At least I tell you where I’m going. Well talk, damn it.” And he turned around to see a tall slim girl standing five feet from him, her long hair streaming wet and her clothes clinging to her body. He was conscious of nothing in her face but her eyes; huge, blue and heavy, dominating, agonized. Terry stood up suddenly, stammering a little. “You must be Laura,” he said finally. “I was beginning to think you weren’t real.” He took another look at her, pale as a wraith, her eyes the only warmth in the cold oval of her face. “Are you?” he asked. And then smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, don’t just stand there. Come in and sit down.” She moved as if she were dreaming, one hand to her forehead, and he guided her to the sofa where she half sat and half collapsed, letting her head fall back against the cushions. She looked utterly exhausted. Terry stood hovering uncertainly over her, staring at her. At last he said, “Jack says I’ve got to keep you here.” She shut her eyes. “He’s supposed to be home at ten. He should be right along. I’m Terry. Terry Fleming. Jack says he told you about me. He certainly talks a lot about you. He thinks the world of you.” She gave no sign that she had heard or cared to hear. At last in some consternation he said, “Would you like something to eat, Laura? You look like you could do with something.” No answer. He went out to the kitchen and opened a can of soup. He fixed up the plate with crackers and cheese and, as a second thought, smoked oysters, and poured a glass of milk. Every two or three minutes he interrupted his task to go to the doorway and check on her. He thought she might vanish, like a ghost. But she didn’t move. She looked dead. She scared him. He put the food on a tray and brought it into the living room and sat down on the sofa next to her. He put the soup and milk on the coffee table in front of her and then he said, “Wake up. Wake up, Laura.” She didn’t stir. Terry put an oyster on a cracker. “Here,” he said, shaking her a little. “Here, for God’s sake, eat it. It’s your oyster.” Laura stirred and opened her eyes, took one look at the smoked oyster, and turned away with a grimace. Terry was offended. “So what’s wrong with smoked oysters?” he said. “Here. It’s yours.” She looked at him then. Really saw him. And then sat up a little, rubbing her eyes. “Mine?” she repeated dimly. “Jack says you bought ’em.” Terry looked at her with bright eyes, curious now. “You might as well enjoy them.” Laura sighed and then saw the soup. Terry handed her a spoon and she ate it all without a pause or a word. It seemed to give her strength, to bring her back to life. “I haven’t eaten.” she apologized. “I can’t remember ...” “Want some more?” he asked quickly.