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I woke up suddenly when Arturo ripped the covers off of me. I blinked against the sunlight. He was already half dressed.

"Time to get up, man," he said cheerfully.

I groaned and tried to roll away from the light streaming in through the window. Arturo grabbed my shoulder and rolled me flat onto my back again. He pinned my arm above my head and dug his fingers into my armpit. "Come on, get up."

"I'm not ticklish," I lied.

He ran his fingers over my ribs and proved me wrong. "I knew it. Just like in the dream."

The dream came back to me in a flash: Arturo as an Aztec priest-king fingering my exposed ribs as I lay helpless on his altar. But I recovered quickly, grappling with Arturo and eventually pulling him against me and holding him down.

"Okay," he panted, "that's enough. We don't have time for this, man. Not on a weekday."

I let him go, wondering just how much time he'd be willing to spend wrestling on the weekends. ...

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