By the light of the moon

restraining pressure of
the electrician's tape – so completely engaged the five
senses, it wasn't possible with any seriousness to entertain the
thought that this was a dream. More than once, however, Dylan
closed his eyes and mentally pinched himself... and upon taking
another look, he breathed yet harder when nightmare proved to be
reality.
    The hypodermic syringe surely couldn't have been as huge as it
appeared to be. This instrument looked less suitable for human
beings than for elephants or rhinos. He assumed that its dimensions
were magnified by his fear.
    Right thumb firmly on the thumb rest, knuckles braced against
the finger flange, Doc expelled air from the syringe, and a squirt
of golden fluid caught the lamplight as it glimmered in an arc to
the carpet.
    With a muffled cry of protest, Dylan pulled at his restraints,
causing the chair to rock from side to side.
    'One way or another,' the doctor said affably, 'I'm determined
to administer this.'
    Dylan adamantly shook his head.
    'This stuff won't kill you, son, but a struggle might.'
    Stuff . Having at once rebelled at the prospect of being
injected with a medication or an illegal drug – or a toxic
chemical, a poison, a dose of blood serum contaminated with a
hideous disease – Dylan now rebelled even more strenuously at
the idea of stuff being squirted into his vein. That lazy
word suggested carelessness, an offhanded villainy, as though this
dough-faced, round-shouldered, potbellied example of the banality
of evil could not be bothered, even after all the trouble he'd
taken, to remember what vile substance he intended to administer to
his victim. Stuff! In this instance, the word stuff also suggested that the golden fluid in the syringe might be more
exotic than a mere drug or a poison, or a dose of disease-corrupted
serum, that it must be unique and mysterious and not easily named.
If all you knew was that a smiling, pink-cheeked, crazed physician
had shot you full of stuff , then the good and concerned and not -crazy doctors in a hospital ER wouldn't know what
antidote to apply or what antibiotic to prescribe, because in their
pharmacy they didn't stock treatments for a bad case of stuff .
    Watching Dylan wrench ineffectually at his bonds, the
stuff-peddling maniac clucked his tongue and shook his head
disapprovingly. 'If you struggle, I might tear your vein... or
accidentally inject an air bubble, resulting in an embolism. An
embolism will kill you, or at least leave you a vegetable.'
He indicated Shep at the nearby desk. 'Worse than him.'
    At the burnt-out end of certain bad black days, overwhelmed by
weariness and frustration, Dylan sometimes envied his brother's
disconnection from the worries of the world; however, although Shep
had no responsibilities, Dylan had plenty of them –
including, not least of all, Shep himself – and oblivion,
whether by choice or by embolism, could not be embraced.
    Focusing on the shining needle, Dylan stopped resisting. A sour
sweat lathered his face. Exhaling explosively, inhaling with force,
he snorted like a well-run horse. His skull had begun to throb once
more, particularly where he'd been struck, and also across the
breadth of his forehead. Resistance was futile, debilitating, and
just plain stupid. Since he couldn't avoid being injected, he might
as well accept the malicious medicine man's claim that the
substance in the syringe wasn't lethal, might as well endure the
inevitable, remain alert for an advantage (assuming consciousness
was an option after the injection), and seek help later.
    'That's better, son. Smartest thing is just to get it over with.
It won't even sting as much as a flu vaccination. You can trust
me.'
    You can trust me.
    They were so far into surreal territory that Dylan half expected
the room's furniture to soften and distort like objects in a
painting by Salvador Dali.
    Still wearing a dreamy smile, the stranger expertly guided the
needle into the vein, at once slipped loose the knot in the rubber
tubing, and kept the promise of a painless violation.
    The tip of the thumb reddened as it put pressure on the
plunger.
    Stringing together as unlikely a series of words as Dylan had
ever heard, Doc said, 'I'm injecting you with my life's work.'
    In the transparent barrel of the syringe, the dark stopper began
to move slowly from the top toward the tip, forcing the golden
fluid into the needle.
    'You probably wonder what this stuff will do to you.'
    Stop calling it STUFF! Dylan would have