Glade tossed and turned throughout the night. His mind raced from the events of the last two days. He kept churning over his encounters with strangers and the events in the marketplace. He worried about his journey to Dewindalo. Everyone had warned him about the dangers of the city. It seemed he was the only one confident in his chances. He trusted in himself and, failing that, in his luck.

  Had he not been lucky over the last two days? He was lucky to meet Jude and go to Manolin. He was lucky to meet Heather and reach Station Kay. But then he realized he might have had the wrong perspective. He was immediately stricken by his immense bad luck. His encounter with Jude had nearly killed him. His meeting with Heather left him exiled from Manolin and barred from arriving in Dewindalo sooner. Without a boat, he’d lost precious time. He only had a month to make enough money to save his family.

  Other images flashed in his imagination. He thought of the dead man and the items Jude had looted from him. The binoculars, rather than being a lucky find, had brought him danger. It had been a crime against the dead to accept them. Glade felt as though he might have been cursed. It was the fight over the binoculars that cost him the boat to Dewindalo. He could have managed without them. He might not have a bullet to his name, but he would have had a greater sense of peace.

  Glade tried to keep his body completely still. His father had told him that if he kept rigid in bed and didn’t move for long enough, he would eventually fall asleep. If he really wanted to sleep quickly, he could try squeezing and flexing every muscle in his body while lying completely horizontal and, after relaxing his muscles, keep still and allow sleep to reach him.

  None of these techniques worked.

  Then, Glade heard a sound. He tried to ignore the noises of the room. Since he had lain down to sleep, at least half a dozen men had entered and settled into their respective cots. He assumed the noise was someone getting into bed or heading to the washroom. It was only when his body tingled with a sharp premonition that Glade opened his eyes.

  Instead of the familiar darkness, the one his eyes had grown accustomed to, he saw the shadow of a figure near his bed. Glade remained as still as possible, only moving his eyes. Beside him, a man, crouching low to the ground, had walked around his cot and was reaching toward his bedside table.

  Glade rotated his head very slowly, hoping for a better view. The figure reached for Glade's jacket, his hand dropping beneath its canvas exterior, reaching for the pistol tucked inside.

  Without thinking, Glade jolted up from the cot and grabbed the man robbing him. His hand shot for the pistol, trying to seize control of the weapon. In the frenzy, the trigger was pulled and the pistol fired into the ceiling. At that point, Glade managed to throw the man to the floor and wrestled for the gun. The man's strength dictated the direction of the fight, but Glade tried his best to gain the upper hand. His body was tired and unrested. His only advantage was the element of surprise.

  Bang. Bang.

  The pistol discharged twice more. Glade tore the weapon from the man’s grip with ease. As he did, he realized the shots had gone through the man's chest and killed him.

  Flopping back onto his cot, Glade closed his eyes and felt his chest heavy with quick, shallow breaths. He could do nothing but panic. Only when the heat of a fire torch warmed his face did he open his eyes to the blinding light. He squinted, trying to see past the fire’s glare into the communal bedroom. Everyone who had been sleeping was now awake. Their ears rang from the indoor gunfire. Some men remained in their cots, seated upright, while others circled Glade. One man pulled out his own pistol and aimed it at him.

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  "What are you doing?" he shouted at Glade.

  Glade shielded his eyes with his free hand. His other hand still clutched his semi-automatic against his chest.

  "Someone tried to steal from me. I saw him reach for my pistol and..." Glade lifted himself from the cot and looked at the dead body beside him. The man wore only his undershirt and boxers. Blood had soaked through the clothing and coated the floor. He looked tough, a fighter with short red hair and thick sideburns.

  "It was an accident," Glade said. "I tried to grab it from him and it went off. I--" Glade couldn’t finish. He closed his eyes and let his worries consume him.

  "Eh," said one of the roughs, "we never liked Jasper."

  "Good riddance," said another voice.

  The door to the communal bedroom opened and Post Master Red entered with a breech shotgun crooked into his arm. He shone the torch in his other hand toward the far end of the room.

  "Will you gentlemen please explain what is happening?"

  "Looks like Jasper was trying to rob the newcomer," one voice said.

  "Dirty thief deserved it. He had it coming, he did," another added.

  "Back to your beds, gentlemen. I will deal with the matter now."

  Post Master Red inspected the wounds of the dead man and the hole in the ceiling. "Master Glade, will you accompany me into the hallway?"

  Glade complied and exited the room. The Post Master explained the situation to a group of four workers who waited outside. They were instructed to remove the body, clean the blood, and retrieve Glade's belongings.

  "I would like to apologize, Master Glade. Such behaviour is unacceptable -- but, unfortunately, one of the concomitants of rooming with known criminals and ne’er-do-wells."

  "I didn’t mean to kill him," Glade said. "I saw him reach for my gun and I panicked."

  "Worry not your head, sir," the Post Master said. "In all truth, you have done this station a minor favour. I shall upgrade you to a proper chamber."

  The Post Master began walking down the hall.

  Glade watched the body of the man he had shot being dragged away by two of the workers. He failed to notice that the Post Master was waiting for him a little further down.

  "Sorry!" Glade hurried to catch up and followed him to the third floor.

  "One more thing," the Post Master said, ascending the stairs. "As per the traditional rules of combat, you are now entitled to the belongings of the deceased. I shall have all of his property transferred to you in the morning -- though I shall not burden you with his unpaid debts. Those shall be retracted from the sum total of your largesse."

  "I don’t want the items of a dead man. I have no interest in taking what isn’t mine."

  "Ah, Master Glade, you are quite humble. These items, however, do not come from a dead man. As these events transpired within Station Kay, the items have been transferred into our possession for processing and deliberation. If, after our considerations, the findings yield in your favour, the possessions will be given over to you."

  "Isn’t the result the same?" Glade asked, as they stopped in front of a door.

  "Indeed, you are. Yet, the process makes all the difference. Items purchased at a bazaar are not items from a dead man -- though from a dead man they may have been taken. Enjoy your new accommodations, sir."

  Without allowing Glade the opportunity to speak, Post Master Red turned and walked away. Glade watched as the courteous proprietor of Station Kay entered the stairwell, holding the door for one of his workers. The worker, a swarthy woman, carried all of Glade’s items in her hands. She walked toward him. Glade, following the Post Master's example, held the door open for her.

  She thanked him, entered, placed his items on the bed, and left without saying another word.

  Glade stepped into his new room and marvelled at the chambers. The Post Master had said the room would have cost him a discounted price of five bullets. Instead, Glade had opted for a two-bullet cot and a three-bullet conflict. He should have simply chosen the room and spared himself the terror of a midnight thief.

  He threw himself onto the bed, which bounced quietly. Glade had never known anything so soft.

  'One more minute,' he thought to himself with his eyes closed. 'Then, I’ll put my things away and tuck myself in.'

  The minute never came. He fell asleep as he was.