 The first time, he only took a tooth. I was six years old and our dog Harley, a Labrador Collie Cross, was dying. He lay on our couch, head in my mother's lap, whining in his sleep. We'd taken him to the vet that morning. I remember sitting in the waiting room holding my rolled up comic and trying to hear the muffled voices of my mother and the vet through the door. She told me years later that they'd offered to put Harley down, but she couldn't go through with it. He'd been with us all my life. I had no siblings and I never knew my father. The three of us were all the family I'd ever known. I prayed for Harley that night, the way a child does. Did you ever do that? Not to anyone or anything specific, certainly not to God. We weren't religious at all. I just prayed, generally, to anyone or anything that would listen. Whispered words under covers. I thought it was something people did when they needed help, you know? Didn't really understand. I often wonder if this was how it all began, offering up such innocent need to whatever was listening. When I fell asleep, I had a dream, unlike any other I'd ever experienced. The dream world, white on white, as far as I could see in every direction, an odd shimmer in the air, distortions which seemed to be forming shapes, but never quite succeeding. Hello. I spun around at the voice. There was a man there, tall and thickly set. Other features are not so easy to recall. To focus on him felt like watching an image on water. He seemed ill at ease in his clothing. I remember that and uncomfortably warm. There was always sweat on his brow or being wiped from his palms. I was surprised more than afraid. At this point, he was not threatening in any way. Indeed, he went out of his way to appear otherwise. I see that now. Your name is Adam, isn't it? His voice was friendly, though a little strained. Yes, I replied. I heard my own voice and became aware quite clearly that I was dreaming. There was the clarity you have when you know something is truth. You're right, you know. He said, bending at the waist to bring his eyes level with mine. This is just a dream, but I am very real and I would like to help you, Adam. He never came too close, just smiled, wiping at his mouth, gaze fixed on me. Your dog is dying, isn't he? Your friend? Very sad, of course, but he met my eyes and brinned. I can help him. Really? Oh yes, but I need a little something from you, Adam. Just a small thing, nothing vital. What is it? He smiled. Your tooth? How did he know, I thought? I felt the loose one in my mouth. It had been that way for a week now. I'd been pushing it around with my tongue all day. But it isn't out yet. I said, Oh, I know, I know. You will need to help it along. Just a little. You want me to help, Harley, don't you? I did, of course. Do you want your friend to live or die, Adam? I can help you, but only if you do your part. Now, before you wake, if you want to save him, you must be quick. You have to do it and hand it to me. He never took his eyes off mine. I thought I could be brave, couldn't I? I could do it to save my dog, couldn't I? I pushed with my tongue until it hurt. It wouldn't be enough. Tick tock, Adam. We're running out of time. I reached into my mouth and got a hold of my tooth between two fingers. Do it quickly. I pulled. The taste of blood was in my mouth, my eyes watered, and I heard myself cry. Then something snapped and the blood rushed out, spilling suddenly onto the floor. Here. The man snapped his fingers at me and held out his hand. Spittle was running down his chin. He reached out and clumsily, hungrily, snatched the bloody tooth, eyes fixed, brow glistening with sweat. Then he popped it in his mouth and ate it like a candy. I woke to the sound of its slippery crunch from between his wet lips. Heart racing, I lay there in bed, mourning light stinging my eyes. I felt for my tooth. It was gone, just a small hole where it had been. I told my mother about the missing tooth and she said not to worry. I must have swallowed it in my sleep. These things happen. It was quickly forgotten with our happiness over our Harley's recovery. He was there at my bedroom door when I got up, wagging his tail and ready for walks. Everything was good again. I never told anyone about my dream. Stupid. He still died a month later, gone in his sleep, cold by the morning. I found him as I was the first one downstairs calling his name. I remember standing there for a long time, silent, frozen in the moment, watching his limp body and feeling that gap in my mouth. Now, all these years later, I'm watching in silence again. I can't let her see me. I wouldn't want to scare her. Do you understand how you can love someone enough to leave? Every year that passes, I retreat further into the dark away from prying eyes. Out in the world, she lives her life, perfect and beautiful. Every movement and word and moment, the pain swells and blooms inside. And I think I cannot miss her any more than I do. I couldn't survive it. Then another day comes and somehow I do. My mother was in a car accident when I was 18. I see roads, a tired truck driver, blood in broken glass, a phone call. She was in a coma when I reached the hospital, covered in bandages, eyes closed, didn't have long, they told me. I was consumed by regret more than anything. We'd been growing apart for years. All the things I hadn't said and had taken for granted were haunting me. All the things I'd assumed would be there in the future until time ate them up. She gave me unconditional love from the moment I was born and all I had to do was be there for her. Yet still, still I failed. I would have given anything to speak to her once more if only for a few hours, to tell her everything I could and to listen. I cried like a baby by her bed, memories cutting me every time I closed my eyes. After 36 hours, I fell asleep in the waiting room holding a lukewarm cup of tea. Hello again, Adam. You remember me, don't you? The white on white world, the man in the ill-fitting suit. Yes, I remember you. You said you'd save my dog. And I did, did I not? You cannot buy immortality, don't be a fool. He wiped at his lips. Heat seemed to radiate from him. Give me a little at a time, Adam. That's how it works. A tooth doesn't get you much. A few weeks for a dog. That's fair. Don't you think that's fair? I... I don't know. Oh, you do. You do. He smiled and wiped his hands on his chest. And here you are again, your poor mother, yes? So close already. Images of her flooded into my mind, and I was ashamed of forgetting her, even for a second. She doesn't have long, Adam. He wanted me to say it, I realized. Can you help her? Oh yes. Oh yes, of course I can help. What do you want? Tell me. An hour. A few hours with her. My voice cracked as I answered. What? Speak up. I want to talk to my mom. His eyes burned into me for a moment before he looked over my shoulder. I followed his gaze. A table had appeared behind me. There was a knife on it. A finger. He said, for an hour with her. He was licking at his lips, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. I couldn't take my eyes off the knife. Just as before, Adam, do it quickly, then give it to me. I didn't have a choice. The knife was heavier than it looked, the pain just as expected. I almost stopped more than once, when it became too much or I couldn't cut through. But I kept going. I didn't have a choice. I'd slumped to the floor, shaking and soaking in sweat, when he took my severed finger. Then he ate it in front of me. I was woken by the sound of someone calling my name. Cold tea had spilled into my lap, and a nurse put her hand on my shoulder. I had to go with her, she said. My mother was awake. I tried to reply to get to my feet, but I was frozen in place, staring at the stump where my finger had been. Staring at the skin, smooth and perfect, as if it had always been that way. I watched her go through her day, from across roads, through windows. I will phone her tonight, but I can't speak, of course. It'll be worth it to hear her voice. It will all be worth it. Do you understand? I didn't have a choice. When my daughter was one year old, she had a seizure, ambulances and hospitals followed. Tears and sleepless nights for myself and my wife. There is no fear like it. After a week of tests, the doctors invited us in to speak with them. Their words were quiet and kind and stunk of finality. Our daughter would not get better. She had another year at most. They could make her comfortable. There is no emptier place in the world than the future without your child. You would do anything to change it. Anything. I held my wife and stared again at my missing finger, remembering how I'd hit it from people made up lies about an accident. But most of all, I remembered his words. Of course I can help. What do you want? Tell me. That night, I watched my daughter sleeping in her cot, perfect and beautiful. And I knew what I had to do. Eventually, I slept. He was waiting for me in the white. He did not show himself at first. He remained behind me, hot breath on my neck. I heard splashes on the ground, saliva running from his mouth. He cast a larger shadow now than the man I'd seen before. How much time can I buy her? I asked. There was a table in front of us, set with shining cutlery. Many bone-handled knives. Oh, many years. His voice was thicker, heavier. It depends. How much are you willing to give? How long we can make you last? His hand. No, it was no longer a hand. His claw was on my shoulder. But we'll find out. He whispered, Yes, we shall. Within time I would see him as he truly was. By then, of course, it was much too late. He walked past me and picked up a spoon, gave it a tap on the table. Let's stop with an eye. That was fifteen years ago. I had to leave my wife, my family, hide myself away. I couldn't conceal what was happening to me. I couldn't explain. I could only go on. But now my time is running out, so hers is, too. My daughter, I have so little left to give. One eye, one arm, both legs, of course. I've been in a wheelchair for a decade. Teeth, gums, tongue, my voice with them, all gone, eaten away. I sometimes wonder, how am I still alive? If you can call this life waking up hollower than I was after a night of cutting and blood and horror. You don't really need both kidneys. Did you know that? So many organs and bones are not essential. I'm afraid to sleep now. There won't be many more times. I think of the voice of the thing in my dreams, the bloody mouth and grasping claws. As I lay on that white floor in a pool of red, deadened by the pain, listening to the clink of cutlery and smack of lips, I will tell myself I cannot face this again. And then I'll think of my daughter, of buying her a little more time, and I will sleep.