Archer knew he wasn’t dreaming, and was fairly sure he wasn’t hallucinating either. One moment he’d been lying in bed, trying to get back to sleep after having woken abruptly, the next he was here, in a cloud stinking of burnt hair. The air that had cleared out the smoke when the room’s other occupant had opened the window was fetid and humid, and clogged Archer’s throat. The temperature was too hot and it hit him hard, like stepping from air conditioning out into a hundred degree day. All he could do was stare.
The man before him stared right back, although he looked horrified. Which was funny, considering Archer was half convinced he was in Hell or someplace similar, based on the atmosphere. Archer sized the man up—the youthfulness of him, smooth white skin, brown hair down to his shoul
