In the basement storage area, Walters had reviewed his notes. Toward the middle of the first book, he found the entry: “Outsider/Hotel/Exp. drug/The Gauntlet.”

It had been several years ago, after he had left Dry Out. His supervisor, Dr. Killigren, had introduced him to a man with one of those nondescript names: Mr. White, Mr. Brown, something like that. Go with him, the boss had said, and take our newest concoction. Killigren handed him a vial of pills and explained that the Agency had been experimenting with a new drug that in certain cases diminished the cravings of hardcore alcoholics. The medication had been cooked up, practically accidentally, at one of the labs of the Directorate of Science and Technology. The side-effects included impotence, dizziness, and profound nausea. The drug was being kept a secret from Dry Out. They’d go wild, Killigren had said, if they thought such an easy fix had been found. But his office had used it a few times, in discreet tests. Of course, it’s a secret from the FDA, Killigren said.

Mr. White—if that was his name—escorted Walters to a suite in the Rosslyn Marriott. The room was filthy. The air held a stench. A lamp was smashed. Jagged glass littered the carpet. Furniture was overturned, the bed linen soiled by bodily fluids. And a man was slumped in a chair watching a soap opera.

Walters’s guide explained to him that the semi-conscious fellow was a “friend” who had been through a rough patch. You could say we owe him, Mr. White remarked. Perhaps the pills.

This man needs more than a pill, Walters said. This is all we can do for him right now, Mr. White said. The man in the chair said nothing. He did not seem to notice that others had joined him in the room.

Walters shut off the television set and sat in front of his subject. Can you tell me what happened? he asked the man in the chair. No, Mr. White said. No questions. Tell him about the pills.

This is ridiculous, Walters thought. The fellow was barely awake. He studied him. A week-old beard, thick wrists, unkempt, thinning brown hair, a scar on his ear. One eye was shut tight, and he held something in his hand. As if to explain, the man opened his fist. In his palm was a glass eye. He placed it back within his eye socket.

He wore combat boots, an unbuttoned leather vest over a bare chest, and a baseball cap bearing an emblem that read “The Gauntlet.” What’s that? Walters defiantly asked, pointing to the words on the hat. The man in the chair blinked repeatedly; he coughed.

Place where I work—sometimes, he mumbled.

Enough, said Mr. White. Explain the pills.