The dream was not of war, nor of the muddy trenches that had claimed the legs of his brothers in arms, but of a vast, humming machine made of bone and iron, standing in a field of white ash, and in the dream he was not holding a rifle but a pair of spectacles, their lenses cracked and filled with swirling grey smoke, and he knew with a certainty that felt like physical pain that if he put them on he would see the truth of his own face, which was not his face at all, but the face of the thing that had built the machine, and when he woke, the first thing he saw was the window of his small room in the boarding house, and the light was the color of old tea, and the second thing he saw was his own hands, which were trembling, not from the cold, which was a biting frost that had settled over the town of Millhaven, but from the memory of the weight of the glass, and he sat up, the straw tickling his neck, and he reached for the nightstand, where his uniform lay folded with a precision that was becoming less and less rigid as the days wore on, and the brass buttons, once bright as stars, were now dull, and the fabric, once stiff with starch and pride, was softening, fraying at the seams, wearing thin in the places where his body pressed against it, and he pulled it on, and the feeling was like putting on a skin that did not quite fit, too loose in the shoulders, too tight in the waist, a garment that had been made for a man who was taller, stronger, more certain of the ground beneath his feet than he was now, and he looked in the mirror, which was cracked in the corner, and the man who looked back at him had eyes that were hollowed out, as if someone had scooped out the light and replaced it with dirt, and he thought of Eleanor, who was waiting for him at the end of the day, not with anger, but with a silence that was heavier than any shout, and he knew that she did not hate him, but she did not understand him, and that was worse, because hatred is a clear thing, a weapon you can deflect, but not understanding is a fog, and you can walk into it and lose yourself, and you do not know when you have been lost, and he buttoned the coat, and the buttons felt like teeth, biting into the fabric, holding it together by force, and he went downstairs, where the landlady, Mrs. Gable, was making coffee, and the smell of it was thick, cloying, and it made him want to throw up, and she looked at him, and her eyes were kind, but they were also pitying, and that pity was a knife, and she said, You look like death warmed up, Tom, and he did not smile, because smiling was a mask, and he had run out of masks, and he said, I am fine, Mrs. Gable, and she nodded, and she did not believe him, and she knew he did not believe her, and that was the truth between them, a quiet, shared lie, and he went out into the street, and the air was sharp, and it cut at his lungs, and the town was waking up, and the workers were going to the mills, and the children were going to school, and the horses were stamping in the stables, and the world was turning, and he was standing still, a stone in the stream, and he felt the weight of his badge, which was a heavy thing, a disc of metal that pressed against his chest, and it was not a badge of honor, but a brand, a mark of ownership, and he owned nothing, and he was owned by the machine, and the machine was the law, and the law was the town, and the town was the mill, and the mill was the smoke, and the smoke was the sky, and the sky was the void, and he walked to the station house, and the door was heavy, and it stuck in the frame, and he pushed it open, and the room was cold, and the other men were there, and they did not look at him, and he did not look at them, and they were a unit, a machine, and he was a part of it, but a broken part, a gear that had slipped, and he sat at his desk, and the paper was white, and the ink was black, and he wrote, and the words were small, and they were cramped, and they were wrong, and he knew they were wrong, but he wrote them anyway, because writing was the only thing he could do, and it was a form of breathing, and he wrote about the incident, about the man who had been caught in the alley, and the man had not done anything, but he had been there, and being there was enough, and he had been beaten, and the beating was legal, and the law was the machine, and the machine was the law, and the man had screamed, and the screaming was a sound that had no end, and it had followed Tom back to his room, and it had been in the dream, and the man was not dead, but he was broken, and Tom was broken, and they were the same, and they were different, and he put the pen down, and the tip was dry, and the ink had dried, and the words were there, and they were a record, and a record is a tomb, and he buried the truth in the paper, and he buried himself in the duty, and he went home, and the street was dark, and the lamps were flickering, and the light was weak, and the shadows were long, and he walked, and his feet were heavy, and the coat was heavy, and the badge was heavy, and the air was heavy, and the world was heavy, and he could not move, and he wanted to stop, and he wanted to lie down, and he wanted to sleep, and he wanted to die, and he wanted to live, and he wanted to be free, and freedom was a word that had no meaning, and it was a weight, and he carried it, and he walked, and he reached the house, and the door was closed, and the window was dark, and he knew she was there, and he knew she was waiting, and he knew she was angry, and he knew she was sad, and he knew she was alone, and he was alone, and they were together, and they were apart, and he opened the door, and the house was quiet, and the air was still, and he heard her breathing, and it was slow, and it was deep, and it was the sound of life, and it was the sound of endurance, and he went to her, and she looked up, and her eyes were red, and her face was pale, and she said, Did you eat, Tom, and he said, No, and she said, You look like you have seen a ghost, and he said, I have seen myself, and she did not understand, and she did not ask, and she made tea, and the tea was hot, and the cup was warm, and he held it, and the heat was a comfort, and it was a pain, and he drank, and the tea was bitter, and it was sweet, and it was the taste of home, and it was the taste of prison, and he looked at her, and he saw her hair, which was grey, and her hands, which were rough, and her face, which was lined, and he saw the years, and the years were a thief, and they had stolen his youth, and they had stolen her beauty, and they had stolen their hope, and they had left them with the truth, and the truth was that they were old, and they were tired, and they were alone, and he loved her, and the love was not a gentle thing, but a fierce thing, a primal thing, a hunger that could not be sated, and it was the only thing that was real, and he held her hand, and her hand was cold, and he warmed it, and she held it, and they sat, and the clock ticked, and the tick was a heartbeat, and the heartbeat was a rhythm, and the rhythm was the machine, and the machine was the life, and the life was the pain, and the pain was the love, and the love was the freedom, and the freedom was the prison, and the prison was the home, and the home was the heart, and the heart was the soul, and the soul was the spirit, and the spirit was the light, and the light was the dark, and the dark was the night, and the night was the end, and the end was the beginning, and the beginning was the dream, and the dream was the waking, and the waking was the living, and the living was the dying, and the dying was the being, and the being was the nothing, and the nothing was the everything, and he closed his eyes, and he let go, and the letting go was the heaviest thing he had ever done, and it was the lightest, and it was the right thing, and it was the only thing, and it was the truth, and the truth was the coat, and the coat was the skin, and the skin was the body, and the body was the mind, and the mind was the heart, and the heart was the soul, and the soul was the free, and the free was the gone, and the gone was the here, and the here was the now, and the now was the forever, and the forever was the moment, and the moment was the breath, and the breath was the life, and the life was the love, and the love was the end.