Dex thought of that elusive thing Henry had mentioned companionship. A little light in the darkness. He thought of playing chess perhaps twice a week instead of once. Perhaps even three times a week... and if the game was not finished by ten, perhaps playing until midnight if neither of them had any early morning classes, instead of having to put the board away (and, as likely as not, Wilma would just 'accidentally' knock over the pieces 'while dusting,' so that the game would have to be started all over again the following Thursday evening). He thought of his friend, at last free of that other species of Tasmanian devil that killed more slowly but just as surely--by heart attack, by stroke, by ulcer, by high blood pressure, yammering and whistling in the ear all the while.
Last of all, he thought of the janitor, casually flicking his quarter, and of the quarter coming down and rolling under the stairs, where a very old horror sat squat and mute, covered with dust and cobwebs, waiting... biding its time...
What had Henry said? The whole thing was almost hellishly perfect.
'No need to thank me, Henry,' he said.
Henry stood up. 'If you got dressed,' he said, 'you could run me down to the campus. I could get my MG and go back home and report Wilma missing.'
Dex thought about it. Henry was inviting him to cross a nearly invisible line, it seemed, from bystander to accomplice. Did he want to cross that line?
At last he swung his legs out of bed. 'All right, Henry.'
'Thank you, Dexter.'
Dex smiled slowly. 'That's all right,' he said. 'After all, what are friends for?'
