Reis was dreaming of the forest. He was reaching upward, his hand wrapping around a tree root, his foot finding that perfect step in the earth. He felt his muscles tighten in an almost sexual way as he ascended toward the brilliant fall blue of the sky—his body straining in pleasure, each advance a rush, a wholeness. Each part doing what was necessary—a perfect amalgamation of man and mountain so that when he woke only a few yards from the summit of his dreams, he felt initially euphoric, stretched his arms above his head, and yawned. His eyes then focused on the dullness of the ceiling. Feeling the sticky sensation of the sheets against his back, his head started to ache. The nauseous odor of mildew hit him each time he took a breath, while the incessant sound of Albany traffic assaulted his ears. He closed his eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to draw himself back into the dream, into that sensation of perfect control. He rolled over on his side and drew his legs toward his chest, glad that he was alone—glad that he could roll up like a child and not be judged. And, if he chose to, glad that he could cry, or even weep, with no one there to hear that tree fall in that forest.