I pushed my hand against my stomach, feeling power flutter there like, as my younger self had said, a burp. “Ms. Corvallis. Who were they?”

I didn’t even need to hear her say it. She did, anyway, of course, triumph in her voice as I mouthed the same words she announced: “Mark and Barbara Bragg.”

I would’ve laughed, if I’d had it in me. I didn’t, so I only got off the phone with my vision blurred and my stomach roiling. I didn’t know what the link between a physics project and the sleeping sickness was, or what either of them had to do with Mark, who was an English major—

—Mark, who had told me he was an English major. I hadn’t had any reason to disbelieve him, except he was too good to be true. But then, so was Thor, who was good-looking and genuinely into cars and who apparently thought I cleaned up well enough to ask me on a date. So was Gary, whose steadiness and good heart had gotten me through the past seven months with something like my head on straight. So was Morrison, who might be short-tempered and grumpy with me, but whose inherent qualities were inarguably golden. I hadn’t exactly done an extensive background search on Mark, but I honestly thought that this time I’d approached the new arrival in my life with enough skepticism to give myself some credit.

And I’d been wrong despite my caution. That was bad enough. What was worse was that, however Mark was tangled up in the sleeping sickness, at least I was semiprepared for it. I’d had enough brain cells to wonder if the person who’d been dropped into my life was too good to be true, even if I’d settled into an incorrect complacency.

Morrison didn’t have anything like that kind of warning. I had to tell him, and I didn’t want to have that conversation while standing in front of Bradley Holliday. I waited until I was safe in Petite, who offered me some kind of psychological comfort, before dialing my boss’s cell phone.

He didn’t answer, which was so incredibly unlike him I immediately began to worry. Then I remembered it was well after midnight, which might just have something to do with it. I was about to redial the number when my phone rang, startling the bejeezus out of me.

“It’s a quarter after one in the morning, Walker,” Morrison growled in my ear. “This had better be very good.”

“This sleeping sickness. First it was Billy and Mel, but when I went in to try to help Mel, I had this dream. Everybody in the dream was asleep by the time I got to work yesterday, Morrison.” I thought it was yesterday. I was pretty sure it was the wee hours of Thursday morning now. I hadn’t truly slept since Tuesday afternoon. My grasp on when things had happened was starting to slip. So was my coherency. I struggled for a point: “Everybody but you, Barb, and Mark.”

“You called me up at one in the morning to tell me you’re dreaming about me, Walker?” Morrison sounded utterly disbelieving. I didn’t blame him.

“No. I mean, yes, but no. They’re tied into this sleeping sickness somehow, boss. I don’t understand how yet, but I just talked to Laurie Corvallis, and the point is, you’ve got to stay away from Barb.”

Morrison said, “For Christ’s sake, Walker,” and hung up the phone. I stared at it, then called back. Maybe he had the same Pavlovian response to ringing phones that I did, because he answered even though he had to know it was me.

“She’s there, isn’t she?” The very idea made my eyes hot. “Morrison, listen to me. That topaz is working. If you don’t have it, there’s nothing protecting you, and if she’s there you’re in danger. You’ve got to get out of there.”

I heard him pull a deep breath. His voice was very steady a moment later when he said, “Walker, you sound ridiculous. Yes. Barbara’s here, though that’s none of your business. You need to go home and go to bed. You’re obviously overwrought.”

“I’m over—I’m…Morrison! You told me to solve this thing! I’m telling you, she’s got something to do with it! She and Mark were—”

“Walker, listen to yourself. You sound like—” My boss was at a loss for words there for an instant, then finished as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “You sound like you’re jealous, Walker.”

I slammed the heel of my hand into Petite’s horn and shouted, “Of course I’m jealous, you idiot!” over its blare. “Could we get past that and get you out of the house, please?” I pounded on the horn, short bursts of noise that emphasized my words. Then I remembered I was sitting outside a hospital, and stopped hitting the horn.

The silence that followed was profound. Not just the silence in the car, but Morrison’s quietness on the other end of the line. He finally said, very gently, “Go home and get some rest, Walker. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.” He hung up, and I wrapped my hand around my cell phone and smashed my fist into the opposite palm until I stopped wanting to cry.

It took long enough to let me decide that if Morrison wasn’t going to listen to my irrational, embarrassing self over the phone, I was just going to have to go to his house and talk to him in person. Because that would go over so well. It might help if I started with an apology, though that wasn’t going to help my general feeling of humiliation any. I was pretty sure that karmically speaking, though, the universe would approve of it as a first step.

The problem was I didn’t know where he lived. Or even if he was at home, for that matter. He could’ve been with Barb, for all I knew. The whole idea made my stomach hurt, a fishhook tug that felt like I was being pulled where I didn’t want to go. While my mind ran in circles trying to figure out how to figure out where he lived, my hand opened up and dialed the front desk at the precinct building. The guy who answered wasn’t Bruce, which it wouldn’t have been, anyway, because he didn’t work a night shift, but my heart missed a beat and hung there miserably in my chest while I asked to be, and was, transferred to the missing persons department.

Intellectually I didn’t expect anybody to be there at goingon two in the morning. My intellect, though, was still working on how to find Morrison’s house while some other part of my mind, working on automatic, actually tried doing something about it. My stomach hurt even more, a bubbling mess of sickness that roiled and twisted beneath my breastbone. I made a fist and thumped it against my diaphragm, trying to work some of the discomfort out, and narrowly avoided burping in the ear of the woman who picked up the phone, her Spanish accent tired.

“Jen? What’re you doing there?”

“Joanie? What are you doing calling?” Tired didn’t cover it. She sounded exhausted. I thought I probably sounded the same. “I’m popping NoDoz and drinking Jolt,” she answered. “I fall asleep if I’m at home, so I thought I’d hang out here and try to get some late-night work done.”

My face crumpled. “Are a lot of people doing that?”

“All over the place. Everybody’s trying to stay awake. What are you calling MP for, Joanie? Is everything okay?”

Talking about staying awake made me yawn. I tried to keep it tight so it wouldn’t set Jen to yawning, too. “I have kind of a weird question.”

“Is it weirder than asking me to find a modern-day kid from a reference painting of mythological figures?”

I lifted my eyes to look blankly through Petite’s windshield. “When you put it that way, no.” For a moment my vision fused with the Sight and I could see spiderweb cracks all through Petite’s window, streetlight glinting on the damaged lines. “I need Morrison’s home address.”

The silence that followed was long and profound enough I found myself shifting uncomfortably in Petite’s bucket seat. “What,” I finally said, “is that weirder than the painting?”

“The jury’s still out,” Jen said after another long several seconds. “Why don’t you just call him?” She sounded, I thought, suspiciously like a teenager waiting to get the dirt on a topic she’d been polite enough not to ask about until now. I began to wonder if I was the last one who’d picked up on my own emotional conflict regarding Morrison. I hoped not. I hoped, at least, that Morrison was still a step behind me.