My dad lets out a long yawn, arms extending high toward the ceiling, then tells me he’s exhausted and is going to bed. He does add that if Ingrid calls or texts to wake him.

I tell him I will.

I walk into the kitchen. It is spotless, evidence Isabel had been by the previous day.

I cross my fingers and open the fridge.

Lasagna.

“Yes.”

I cut two huge slices, then get them heating. I walk to my bedroom and lift the bed skirt and peek underneath.

Lassie is on his side.

I reach out my hand and grab him by the tail and slide him out. He doesn’t move.

I check his pulse.

Alive.

“Hey, buddy. I have just the thing to cheer you up?”

Meow.

“No, I didn’t chop Murdock up into a million pieces and feed him to a bunch of ducks.”

He sighs.

“I have a big piece of lasagna heating up for you.”

He snorts.

“Come on, I know how much you love lasagna.”

Meow.

“Who is Garfield?”

Meow.

“Seriously, I have no idea.” I stand up. “Well, come out and eat with me if you want.”

I leave the room.

A minute later, I’m situated at the table with half a foot of lasagna and thirty-two ounces of milk. There is a plate under the table with a small slice and a saucer of milk.

I snag my laptop and log onto Google Earth. I spent ten minutes playing around with the program when I was searching for accommodations for Ingrid’s and my trip to Alaska.

I pull up the image of downtown DC, then scroll until I find the intersection of S Street and Manchester Ave.

I zoom in to street level and begin making my way down the street. The intersection is a hub of activity and businesses line both sides of both streets.

The corner intersection has a gas station, a Wendy’s, an office building, and another office building.

I move the cursor down S Street, then down Manchester Ave, noting all the buildings the congressman and my mother might have entered, though over the course of the past thirty years, many of the businesses had presumably changed hands.

Was it possible that inside one of those buildings could be the headquarters of the Sleep Control Program?

Maybe back in 1985 that was the case, but certainly it was moved since then. They wouldn’t put a black op within two miles of the White House? Would they?

No, the Sleep Control Program is located in Michigan, where they found me.

Or somewhere close by.

Maybe even Canada.

I hear a huff and I peek under the table.

Lassie is sitting there like a stone statue, staring at the lasagna. He looks like he just went fifteen rounds in the boxing ring.