Seth's eyes snapped open as he gasped.  He lay there, staring wide-eyed into the blackness of his bedroom, disoriented.  The dream (nightmare?) was already fading.  Something about New York in the winter.  And anything about New York  in the winter immediately brought his mind to Amber.  He turned his head, and the clock read 3:27.

"Shit," he said.

He got up on one elbow, reached over and clicked on the lamp.  At the foot of the bed, Dudley was still sprawled on his side.  As the light came on, the dog lifted his head and looked back, clearly annoyed at this disturbance to his slumber.  Deciding that he wasn't needed, he laid his head back down with a whoofing sigh.

Seth looked at the dog, a bemused smirk on his face, then grabbed the pack of Marlboros and the lighter tucked between the lamp and the clock.  He lit a cigarette, took a deep pull, and dropped back onto the pillow as he exhaled, the smoke drifting up and beyond the feeble lamplight.  As he took another drag off the cigarette, he tried to remember the dream, but it was gone, leaving behind only a sense of uneasiness and the memory of Amber.

He wouldn't be sleeping anymore tonight.

He stabbed the cigarette out in the ashtray on the headboard and swung his legs out of bed.  Dudley groaned, but didn't move.  Seth pulled on a pair of boxers from the pile of clothes next to the bed and walked out into the living room.  Muted light trickled in from the streetlight outside as he sat down on the ratty couch.  He dug the remote out of the couch cushion and was about to turn the TV on but stopped.  Amber was in his head now.  He hadn't thought about her or New York or "the incident" for several years now, but now here they all were in his head, and he knew that he was doomed to ride out the storm.  He could already feel his brain scouring every last synapse for every last bit of painful memory.

"Shit," he said.

He sat there a moment longer, remote dangling forgotten in his hand.  Then he tossed it back on the couch as he got up and made his way to the cramped utility room off the cramped kitchen.  The only light in the utility room was a naked bulb with a frayed piece of twine to turn it on.  He pulled on the twine and the weak light of the 30 watt snapped on.  Besides the water heater, Seth had crammed in several cardboard boxes, the sum of everything he owned.  Of course the box he was looking for was at the bottom.  Grunting and swearing, he maneuvered the boxes until he got to the one he was looking for, the one marked "Winter".  Pulling the flaps open, he looked down into a jumble of scarves and ski caps and gloves.  Why he kept carting this crap around, he didn't know.  Living in New Mexico he certainly didn't need any of it.  But what he was looking for was in here somewhere, so maybe it's good he kept it.

Of course it was at the bottom of the box.  It would be too easy if it had been right on the top.  But instead as he plucked out mittens and boots he had to deal with that sinking feeling it wouldn't be there.  But there it was, his black and grey fleece from The North Face and in the left breast pocket he found the matchbook for Nunzio's Pizzeria and Restaurant.  And scribbled inside the cover was Amber's number.

He went back into the living room, snagging the cordless off its charger on the kitchen counter on his way.  He sat back down on the couch, phone in one hand, matchbook in the other.   With his finger, he flicked the matchbook open, closed, open, closed.  So here it was, decision time.  He could just let this all go, deal with the pain of the memories and let them fade in the days and weeks ahead.  Or he could be selfish and call the number in that matchbook.

In another life, he'd have taken the selfless route.  But that was a long time ago.  And he wasn't the man he used to be.  He took a deep breath, and then he started to dial.  It was funny, back in the day, he'd dialed that number when he was too drunk to stand; he couldn't remember his own name but he'd always remember her number.  Now, on his first try, he dialed a 7 instead of an 8.

"Shit," he said.

So he tried again.  He could feel his stomach roiling as the numbers booped in his ear.  He felt like he did the night he called Melora Abramowitz to ask her to the prom, his mind screaming "You're actually doing it!  You're actually calling!  You still have time to hang up!"  But the numbers were dialed and the line on the other end was ringing.  Once, twice, then a slight click.  And then the sound he had half expected.  Three of the most shrill tones in the world in ascending order and a recorded voice telling him: "We're sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service.  Please check the number and dial again."  He tossed the phone on the couch next to the remote.

"Shit," he said.