A hand on my hip ... no, not a hand... Bobby’s hand. I don’t know why I knew it was Bobby’s hand, but I just felt it.I went to his room, where h... had elected to sleep on a mattress on the floor. He said it reminded him of his cell back at St. [redacted].He was asleep. I felt his hand move up my side. It was crazy.“Bobby!” I said, loudly.The hand vanished as he lifted his head.“Huh?” he asked, obviously groggy. “What’s wrong?”“I think you were dreaming,” I said.“What?” He sat up. It was warm and. Within a year he was writing some of the boring little articles which no one else wanted to bother with. He wrote obituaries, and articles about the firemen getting some little lady's cat out of a tree, and other things the full-fledged reporters thought were beneath them.When he finally got his own byline, he knew he would be doing this for the rest of his life. He knew he had reached the big time when he had been offered a job at the San Francisco Chronicle. He had been there ever since,. More

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