"Argh!"<br/><br/>Scott drops to his knees, clutching at his head.  The tire iron clatters on the bathroom floor, but its peal is lost in the tumult passing through his head.  The pain is intense, like an ice cream headache magnified ten times.<br/><br/><em>In my restless dreams, I see that town.  Silent Hill.<br/>You promised you'd take me there again someday.<br/>But you never did. </em><br/><br/>Fortunately, it abates, and he pulls himself to his feet.   What the hell was going on here?  Strange headaches, bizarre symbols, disappearing psychiatrists...part of him, the logical, rational part, screamed at him to get as far the hell away from here as humanly possible.  But there was another part, a deeper part, that was drawn to it like...well, like a horsefly to a bug zapper.<br/><br/>Picking up the tire iron again, he wiped his face with the back of his arm and regarded the other man.  "Y-es. Yes, let's get to the town," he agreed. "Yes, that's a good idea."<br/><br/>He wondered if Deacon was, by now, regretting handing him the tire iron.  Scott must probably now be looking like the crazier of the two.