Jung strolled Deek’s food up to my office at least twice a week, and I do mean “strolled.” He never rushed. A University of Chicago student on the lifetime plan, Jung, now in his early twenties, was slowly working his way through every academic concentration they had over there. At last report, he had chucked archaeology for philosophy, and worked for Deek whenever he remembered to show up for his shift. I had no idea what he did the rest of the time, or why Deek hadn’t yet chopped him into a stew.

“What’s up, Jung?”

He slid in across from me, a shell-shocked expression on his equine face, offset by blond peach fuzz under his nose and a scraggly soul patch. I looked toward the door to make sure he wasn’t fleeing someone from outside, then watched uneasily as he squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep, cleansing breath before opening them again. “Transcendental breathing,” he said as way of explanation. “Swami Rain recommends it in times of flux.”

I blinked, but said nothing.

“He’s my yogi,” Jung added. “My spiritual adviser? He’s the real deal, too. His teachings got me centered. I consider his place my true spiritual home.”

Jung was average in build and height, and his short blond hair, today, was moussed to death and sticking up like railroad spikes. I stared at him, bewildered by his fashion choices, stuck on Swami Rain, the yogi. Jung wasn’t bleeding; it didn’t look as though he’d been attacked, so I spread my napkin over my lap.

His clear blue eyes held mine. “I have a problem. A big one.”

Muna popped up with my breakfast, shot Jung a withering glance, her arms akimbo, big hands on full hips. Jung stared back, clueless. I ignored them both. My breakfast was getting cold and I wanted to eat and get out of here before Deek went apeshit.

“I’m not on the schedule today,” Jung said. “Personal time. Deek knows.”

Muna sniffed. “Wondered why you were sitting there like real people instead of carting Deek’s food to folks on that slow boat to China you’re captain of.”

Jung held his ground. “Everything in its own time.”

Muna folded her arms across her triple-E bosom. “Eggs and bacon got six minutes before they go stone cold, Speedy Man. Any time after that is the wrong time.” She walked away, having said all she felt she needed to. Muna Steele, mistress of the exit line.

I smeared butter over my flapjacks. “What kind of problem?”

Jung swallowed hard. “I went by your office. You weren’t there.”

“No, I’m here waiting for Deek to give me indigestion. What’d you need?”

He glanced nervously at the swinging kitchen doors. He knew the drill. He leaned in, lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I want to hire you. I mean, I need to hire you.”