of　his　had　been　wont　to　say。　Consider　the　difference　if　they　didn't　go　down；　if

they　could　somehow　stick　it　out。　The　play　would　get　finished。　One　way　or　the

other；　he　would　tack　an　ending　onto　it。　His　own　uncertainty　about　his　characters

might　add　an　appealing　touch　of　ambiguity　to　his　original　ending。　Perhaps　it

would　even　make　him　some　money；　it　wasn't　impossible。　Even　lacking　that；　Al

might　well　convince　the　Stovington　Board　to　rehire　him。　He　would　be　on　pro　of

course；　maybe　for　as　long　as　three　years；　but　if　he　could　stay　sober　and　keep

writing；　he　might　not　have　to　stay　at　Stovington　for　three　years。　Of　course　he

hadn't　cared　much　for　Stovington　before；　he　had　felt　stifled；　buried　alive；　but

that　had　been　an　immature　reaction。　Furthermore；　how　much　could　a　man　enjoy

teaching　when　he　went　through　his　first　three　classes　with　a　skull…busting

hangover　every　second　or　third　day？　It　wouldn't　be　that　way　again。　He　would　be

able　to　handle　his　responsibilities　much　better。　He　was　sure　of　it。

Somewhere　in　the　midst　of　that　thought；　things　began　to　break　up　and　he

drifted　down　into　sleep。　His　last　thought　followed　him　down　like　a　sounding

bell：

It　seemed　that　he　might　be　able　to　find　peace　here。　At　last。　If　they　would

only　let　him。

*　*　*

When　he　woke　up　he　was　standing　in　the　bathroom　of　217。

（been　walking　in　my　sleep　again　—　why？　—　no　radios　to　break　up　here）

The　bathroom　light　was　on；　the　room　behind　him　in　darkness。　The　shower　curtain

was　drawn　around　the　long　claw…footed　tub。　The　bathmat　beside　it　was　wrinkled

and　wet。

He　began　to　feel　afraid；　but　the　very　dreamlike　quality　of　his　fear　told　him