“Get in that cell, nigger!” The words hit him like a gunshot. Ordin put his hands to his ears. The sounds of wails cascaded over him as if he was still there, while he rocked back and forth in the boat. How? How could I be here again? They let me go. They understood. They knew it was an accident. How could this be real? That’s it, it’s not real, it’s another daymare. Daymares are what Ordin had begun to call the terrible flashes of memory that hit him almost always at first, but now only every once in a while, when he became troubled or had a bad feeling.