By the light of the moon

himself that he was safe, and he could push from his
awareness all the violations of comforting routine, also blind and
deafen himself to the otherwise drowning tides of stimulation.
    Awkward movements and poor physical coordination were symptoms
of Shep's condition, but walking while reading didn't lead to
either a stiffer gait or a more pronounced shuffle. Dylan had the
feeling that if confronted by a flight of steps, his brother might
negotiate every riser without putting Mr. Dickens on hold for a
moment.
    No steps awaited them at the restaurant entrance, but when Dylan
touched the door, a fizz of latent psychic energy effervesced
against his palm, the pads of his fingers, and he almost released
the handle.
    'What?' Jilly asked, always alert.
    'Something I'm going to have to get used to.' Vaguely he sensed
numerous personalities expressed by the preternatural residue on
the door handle, like layers of dried sweat from many hands.
    The restaurant presented a split personality, as though against
the laws of physics, a diner and a steakhouse had occupied the same
place at the same time without triggering a catastrophic explosion.
Plastic-looking red leatherette booths and red-leatherette chairs
with chrome legs were mismatched with real mahogany tables.
Expensive cut-glass ceiling fixtures cast rich prismatic light not
on carpet, but on an easy-to-clean, wood-pattern vinyl floor.
Waiters and waitresses wore black suits, crisp white shirts, and
natty black string ties; but the busboys shambled among the tables
in their street clothes, coordinated only by the same
stupid-looking pointy paper hats and by similar surly
expressions.
    With the dinner rush far behind, only a third of the restaurant
tables were occupied. Customers lingering over dessert, liqueurs,
and coffee were engaged in low, pleasantly boozy conversations.
Only a few took notice of Shep as – preceded by Jilly,
followed by Dylan – he allowed the hostess to lead him to a
booth, remaining absorbed in his book every step of the way.
    Shep would rarely sit next to a window in a restaurant because
he didn't want 'to be looked at by people inside and people
out.' Dylan requested a booth distant from the windows, and he sat
on one side of the table with his brother, across from Jilly.
    She looked uncommonly fresh, considering what she'd been through
– and remarkably calm for a woman whose life had been upended
and whose future was as difficult to read as a wad of tea leaves in
a dark room. Hers was not a cheap beauty, but one that would wear
well with time, that would take many hard washings and keep its
color in more than one sense.
    When he picked up the menu that the hostess had placed on the
table before him, Dylan shuddered as if he'd touched ice, and he
put it down at once. Deposited by previous patrons, a lively patina
of emotions, wants, needs, hungers squirmed on the plastic menu
cover and seemed to crackle against his skin, like a charge of
static electricity, much stronger than what he'd felt on the door
handle.
    During their drive north from the interstate, he'd told Jilly
about the psychic spoor. Now she understood at once why he had put
down the menu. 'I'll read mine to you,' she said.
    He found that he liked looking at her while she read, liked it
so much that repeatedly he had to remind himself to listen to her
recitation of salads, soups, sandwiches, and entrees. Her face
soothed him perhaps as much as Great Expectations soothed
Shep.
    While he watched Jilly read aloud, Dylan placed his hands flat
on his menu again. As he expected based on his experience at the
restaurant door, the initial boiling rush of strange impressions
quickly subsided to a quiet simmer. And now he learned that with a
conscious effort, he could entirely quell these uncanny
sensations.
    As she informed him of the last of the dinner selections, Jilly
looked up, saw Dylan's hands on his menu, and clearly realized that
he had allowed her to read to him only to have an excuse to gaze at
her openly, without the challenge of a direct return stare. Judging
by her complex expression, she had mixed feelings about the various
implications of his scrutiny, but at least part of her response was
a lovely, even though uncertain, smile.
    Before either of them could speak, the waitress returned. Jilly
asked for a bottle of Sierra Nevada. Dylan ordered dinner for Shep
and for himself, and requested that Shep's plate be served five
minutes before his own.
    Shepherd continued to read: