The Sleeping Jaywalker was surprised at how calm he felt as he lay down on his bed, still wearing his clothes of course. He didn’t know what would happen during his sleepwalk that evening, knew there was a good chance he might not ever wake up again in the land of the living. Yet he felt his consciousness gliding gently away, sleep descending on him like a gentle snowfall.
Charlie paused, setting the pen down on the sofa to give his aching hand a rest. He looked back at the pages he had written so far in the notebook, failed to remember ever writing so much in such a short period of time. He remembered that was how Mike used to write, furiously scribbling into his notebook, oblivious to the world around him. Not that Mike ever paid much mind to his surroundings even when not writing.
Flexing his hand a final time, Charlie picked up the pen again. He remembered the last word he had written, snowfall, thought how he’d never have come up with that image if Mike hadn’t included it in the story he had told him those many years ago.
Charlie looked down at the notebook, read what he had written. And gasped.
like a gentle snowfall. A moment later his eyes opened, and wouldn’t ya know it, standing next to his bed, yessirre Bob, he saw the fortune teller.
Charlie didn’t remember writing that last sentence. Snowfall — yes, snowfall, he was certain that was the last word he had written. The color of the ink was the same, and the handwriting looked like his, but the smart-aleck comments (wouldn’t ya know it, yessirre Bob) — Charlie didn’t write like that.