Dan said nothing about good dreams turning bad. If he had good dreams, he never remembered them. It was nightmares, double-dreams or (best of all) dreamless sleep. "I get to see the Overlook... eh, at least once a week," he told Jack, his voice tired and listless now. "That bastard Derwent, and those fire hoses that thought they were snakes, and the walk to room 217..." He looked down at his feet as he spoke, and wobbled unsteadily. Perhaps standing up again had been a mistake.
"How's that gonna work? I'm, what, a bajillion miles away from work? Bit of a fucker of a commute," he pointed out, and reached out to put a steadying hand on the wall.