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Back 3 a.m.
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  67. 3:46 a.m.

I spend the next ten minutes scanning a couple more of the “Sandman” search results. My dad brings me two grilled cheeses (cut diagonally and separated by a gooey bridge of cheddar and Monterey Jack) and a bowl of Isabel’s sensational chicken tortilla soup, and I dip and eat while I read.

My father delivers a similar feast to Dee and Dum, and I hear Murdock gulp his down in two bites at which point I imagine he hovers over Lassie — who will savor each bite — and wait for possible leftovers.

At 3:35 a.m., I slip on my Asics.

I spend the next twenty minutes pounding the pavement, trying to imagine a scenario where President Sullivan somehow acquired a flash drive containing the known history of the Sleep Control Program. Every experiment, every compound, every person who ever passed through, every location, every last crumb.

I have so many questions. How did Sullivan stumble across the intel? And if he did, why would he ever give it to me? Why would my mom suspect he’d given it to me? And why did she want it so badly?

Obviously, she was still involved in the Sleep Control Program. Was she afraid if the contents of the flash drive became public knowledge the Sleep Control Program would go the way of the dinosaur, smallpox, and MK-Ultra?

I couldn’t get the pieces to fall into place. Sullivan was all about transparency in the government. He’d gone on a crusade to find and close the illegal black sites the CIA was running on American soil. When he accomplished that feat — with the help of moi — he crucified the then Director of the CIA. Sullivan saw to it personally LeHigh spent the better part of the next decade in Leavenworth. If Sullivan somehow learned of the existence of another CIA clandestine black op, he would have put a stop to it immediately, and my mom would be in the cell right next to LeHigh’s.

The biggest mystery of course: me.

Why me?

Where did I come into play?

Sure, the President and I had become, if not friends, then friendly. But why would he ever choose to give me something — not just something, a flash drive — and moreover, why would my mother suspect this?

And according to Sullivan himself, he didn’t give me anything.

Nothing fit.

When I finish the three-mile loop, it is 3:55 a.m. I can barely feel the miles in my legs, but my brain feels like it just ran a marathon.

My dad is sitting at the table eating his own grilled cheese when I enter, fueling up for another long night of detective work.

“Thanks for the grilled cheese,” I say, giving his shoulders a quick rub. “Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t,” he says, then adds, “Drink a couple glasses of water before bed.”

:09