BooksBarbecue
Back 3 a.m.
Chapters (67)
  1. :01
  2. :02
  3. :03
  4. :04
  5. :05
  6. :06
  7. :07
  8. :08
  9. :09
  10. :10
  11. :11
  12. :12
  13. :13
  14. :14
  15. :15
  16. :16
  17. :17
  18. :01
  19. :02
  20. :03
  21. :04
  22. :05
  23. :06
  24. :07
  25. :08
  26. :09
  27. :10
  28. :11
  29. :12
  30. :13
  31. :01
  32. :02
  33. :03
  34. :04
  35. :05
  36. :06
  37. :07
  38. :08
  39. :09
  40. :10
  41. :11
  42. :12
  43. :13
  44. :14
  45. :15
  46. :16
  47. :00
  48. :01
  49. :02
  50. :03
  51. :04
  52. :05
  53. :06
  54. :07
  55. :08
  56. :09
  57. :10
  58. :11
  59. :12
  60. :13
  61. :14
  62. :15
  63. :16
  64. :17
  65. :18
  66. :19
  67. 3:46 a.m.

Everything else, the description of the room, the doctor in blue scrubs, my mother, the CIA’s Sleep Control Program, my being used in the early stages of the outfit’s experimentation and research, and everything else I could recount was on record and distributed to an alphabet soup of agencies.

The CIA wanted to find my mother.

The Department of Homeland Security wanted to find my mother.

The FBI wanted to find my mother.

But none of them wanted to find her as much as I did.

She caused my condition. And I hoped, if I could find her, she could reverse it.

There was only one way I could think to find her. I would have to locate this flash drive before she did.

And then she would come to me.

:01

“Hey, dork.”

Lassie blinks his yellow eyes a couple times, then paws at me. I blow in his face, which he hates, and he shakes his head, his whiskers bobbing up and down.

“Time to wake up.”

Meow.

“You had a nightmare? About what?”

Meow.

“Justin Timberlake died. That’s your nightmare?”

Meow.

“Oh, sorry. He didn’t die. He was just paralyzed so he couldn’t dance. Yes, that is terrifying. Makes my nightmare of my mother smashing my hand to smithereens with a mallet seem meek by comparison."

Meow.

“Yes, I suppose I would still be able to dance.”

I flip him over and tickle him. We wrestle for a long minute until he taps out.

I look at the clock. 3:04 a.m.

Four minutes gone.

I throw off the covers and stand up.

My childhood room hasn’t changed much in the decade I’ve been gone. It isn’t filled with pictures, trophies, or video game consoles. I didn’t have time for that stuff, though there is a single poster of Prince, to whom I allocated my minimal amount of adulation. There is a giant whiteboard I used when I first started online trading, on which I would write down the stocks I intended to buy and would graph their progress. But aside from these two eccentricities, the walls are bare.

There is a small dresser, bed, and nightstand. Next to the closet sit two ten-pound weights and an abdominal wheel.

The room feels claustrophobic.

I can’t wait to get back to my condo in Alexandria.

According to the contractor who is doing the remodel, it will still be another two weeks until Ingrid and I can move back home.

I am counting the seconds.

Then again, I am always counting seconds.

I pick up Lassie and walk from the bedroom. My dad’s room is just to the left and I poke my head in. He is fast asleep on the right side of the bed. On the left side of the bed, looking all-too-human, is his one-hundred-and-sixty-pound pup, Murdock. The English mastiff has his head on the pillow and is stretched out the length of the bed.