In certain excerpts of that sleep, Liesel watched him. You might say that by the third day it became an obsession, to check on him, to see if he was still breathing. She could now interpret his signs of life, from the movement of his lips, his gathering beard, and the twigs of hair that moved ever so slightly when his head twitched in the dream state.

Max Vandenburg slept for three days.

Often, when she stood over him, there was the mortifying thought that he had just woken up, his eyes splitting open to view her -- to watch her watching. The idea of being caught out plagued and enthused her at the same time. She dreaded it. She invited it. Only when Mama called out to her could she drag herself away, simultaneously soothed and disappointed that she might not be there when he woke.

Isaac. Aunt Ruth. Sarah. Mama. Walter. Hitler.

They were all under the covers with him, and at one point, he appeared to be struggling with himself. "Nein," he whispered. It was repeated seven times. "No."

Sometimes, close to the end of the marathon of sleep, he spoke.

There was a recital of murmured names. A checklist.

Family, friend, enemy.

The stranger reached out, his bed-warmed hand taking her by the forearm.

She was too slow.

A patch of voice escaped his mouth.

When he saw the upside-down face of a girl above him, there was the fretful moment of unfamiliarity and the grasp for recollection -- to decode exactly where and when he was currently sitting. After a few seconds, he managed to scratch his head (the rustle of kindling) and he looked at her. His movements were fragmented, and now that they were open, his eyes were swampy and brown. Thick and heavy.

When the time came, he awoke with the nasty thrill of disorientation. His mouth opened a moment after his eyes and he sat up, right-angled.

As a reflex action, Liesel backed away.

"Please!" Soft.

His voice also held on, as if possessing fingernails. He pressed it into her flesh.

"Papa!" Loud.

"Ay!"

"Please."

Liesel, in the act of watching, was already noticing the similarities between this stranger and herself. They both arrived in a state of agitation on Himmel Street. They both nightmared.

When Papa came in, he first stood in the doorway and witnessed Max Vandenburg's gripping fingers and his desperate face. Both held on to Liesel's arm. "I see you two have met," he said.

Max's fingers started cooling.

It was late afternoon, gray and gleaming, but it was only dirty-colored light that was permitted entrance into the room. It was all the fabric of the curtains allowed. If you're optimistic, think of it as bronze.