Another phantom, nothing more than that. Not broken or bleeding this time but not real either; it hadn't been real since the storm, an arm slung around a scared Billy's waist to keep him from floating away. He doubted even the reality of that; the senses could be fooled.

But this phantom had pressure and weight, the squeezing of arms about his midsection, the pressure of Billy's face against his chest. It felt more solid than many of the phantoms that haunted him of late; that shocked him into a moment of inactivity.

But just a moment; the memory of an attack from behind, the burn of drugs in his veins, made him throw himself back, automatically pulling a knife from its sheath and crouching defensively.