My grandfather Liston was wandering from room to room, almost like a ghost, not speaking or communicating with anyone. He was aware I had been using heroin, but he hadn't said anything to me about it. I turned my attention to the heroin which I now had. It was in a box which resembled a paper half gallon milk container. The black heroin stuck to the bottom and sides of the box, like gooey chocolate. I dipped my finger into it and began eating the delicious sweet-tasting heroin. It didn't take long for the heroin to take effect as an easy numbness overtook my mind. It was difficult to understand why this feeling was so pleasant — but it was.

***

I was thinking about all the dreams which I had been having recently about taking heroin, which I called "smack." I had been posting the dreams on the Internet, where they were read by many people, and I wondered what people thought about such dreams. I was somewhat concerned people would think I had actually been taking heroin, when in fact, I had never used heroin in my entire life. Perhaps Donna (one of the people reading my dreams) would know I hadn't actually been taking the heroin, because I had once talked with her about how heroin appeared in my dreams, and how I had never actually used it. Surely everyone else would think I was using the drug, especially since smack had become so popular in the area where I lived. I was uncertain why I had been dreaming about smack. It seemed the smack must stand for something else in my life, but I had no idea what it was.

***

My use of heroin had progressed. I was quite aware if I continued using the smack, I would become addicted. I theorized I would be able to break the addiction whenever I chose even though doing so might be uncomfortable. At present I was unwilling to undergo the discomfort. Having already used smack a half dozen or more times, I was already beginning to appreciate the feeling of the drug, as well as the incipient overwhelming desire to use it.

The effects of the drug had been difficult to grasp. I had enjoyed the feel of the drug, but each time after the effects had ended, I couldn't remember exactly how the drug had felt. I only knew that I wanted to use more, that I wanted to return to that feeling of subdued relief which the drug afforded me.

Now I was on the search again for more smack. I had been told of a woman who sold smack. Apparently she worked in a travel agency, and to obtain the drug from her, it was necessary to buy a plane ticket to Europe. I didn't want a plane ticket, but if a plane ticket was necessary, I would buy the ticket in order to get the smack. The more I thought about it, I thought I might as well go to Europe anyway. I knew just the place to go — The Netherlands. It would be perfect. With The Netherlands' relaxed drug laws, I should be able to obtain as much heroin as I desired.

***

I was aboard a jet, headed for The Netherlands. I soon met some other fellows on the jet also traveling to Europe for the same reason as I. One even pulled out some heroin to share with the rest of us. The smack looked like a piece of beef jerky. I put it into my mouth and tore off a hunk.

***

I was in a wooded area where people had come to camp out and use smack. I recalled I had been to this place once before, and I looked for the campsite which I had previously used. The campsites consisted of holes in the ground where people could lie down. I recalled I had given particular attention to my hole the last time I had been there, fashioning it to my size; I would like to have the same hole again, but I couldn't find it. The place where I thought my hole should be was overgrown with shrubs and bushes. I was uncertain where I would stay.

Besides, I had another problem: my pet Dalmatian Picasso. Before we had come to this campsite, I had started to wash Picasso, lathering him up with soap, but I had stopped in the middle of the job, leaving Picasso covered with soap. Now the weather was turning cold. Some trees were even covered with small icicles. As we clambered about through the trees, I was afraid Picasso would freeze to death. I needed to finish washing him and dry him as soon as possible.

***

With Picasso still with me, still covered with wet soap, I had stumbled upon a huge cement building which appeared to be a public bath. I couldn't seem to find the entrance. I climbed up a ladder on the side of the building to an opening in the wall, but I didn't go inside. I didn't see how I would be able to haul Picasso up to the opening.

As soon as I was back down on the ground, a group of soldiers approached me. One soldier, a black man dressed in green fatigues, stepped away from the group, and immediately attacked me. Apparently no one was permitted to enter the building, and he intended to punish me for having climbed up the side. As soon as he attacked, I struck back and knocked him to the ground. When he fell on his back, I jumped on top of him and pummeled his face as the other soldiers stood and watched.

When I had finished, I stood back up, and found Carolina standing beside me. She was very happy I had defeated the soldier. She had been worried about me lately, fearing I had lost my ability to fight and protect her. Now she saw I was just as strong, if not stronger, than ever.

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