Raymond?” I whispered into the hush, hardly daring to make a sound.

His heavy eyelids trembled under the low lamplight.

And then, slowly, one dark eye opened, just enough to find my face and hold it.

He was looking at me.

Not through me, not past me, the vacant stare of a man half gone, but at me, with a clear and present awareness that stopped my breath in my throat.

Raymond Winslow was conscious.

He was entirely, completely conscious.