Andrews sat alone in the crack-house staring at the wall like a shotgun stopped in time. He was watching it slowly work backwards from wall to lumber to tree. Or was that just the heroin talking? The book still rested under his arm but it called to him almost as clearly as the golden brown. 'Open me, ' it wanted. Pulling him into the need of the thing. 'Open me Andrews.' It called to him, calling him up and out of the heroin high. 'Open.' With fresh...