“I won’t be playing tennis anytime soon,” Dr. Winter said. “But the doctors seem to think I’ll be all right. Where are you?”

“I’m at the airport,“ she said. “I’m going to help August.”

“Oh, my dear girl,” Dr. Winter said without endearment, like something he’d say after hitting a dog with his car. “What are you planning on doing?”

“I don’t have a plan.”

“Sounds like you have everything under control.”

“This isn’t about control,” April said. “This is about doing the right thing. But you wouldn’t know much about that, would you?”

“Is this why you’ve called?” Dr. Winter asked. “Because I needed another beating?”

“No,” April said. “I think you’re severely screwed up in the head, but I also believe you hate the Order of the Dragon as much as I do. So I need your help.”

“With what?”

“With . . . I don’t know . . . anything! I feel like I’m deliberately walking into a furnace!” April said. “I guess I just want some fireproofing.”

“Tolkien wrote, ‘It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations.’ You need to know what you’re getting into, April.”

“What am I getting into?”

“Did you ever read The Hobbit?”

“Yes. Charlie and I read it together a few years ago.”

“Do you remember the part when Bilbo sneaks into the dragon’s lair? Do you remember how frightened he was?”

“Sort of.”

“Why was he frightened?”

“I guess because he knew that the dragon could crush him with one blow. Or sneeze and roast him to death.”

“Exactly. Bilbo understood the power of the dragon,” Dr. Winter said. “Do you understand the power of your dragon?”

April thought through the question. It was classic Winter. Non-direct. Specifically nonspecific. “I know the Order is extremely dangerous,” she said.

Dr. Winter laughed. “I’m not talking about the Order,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” April said. “What else could you be talking about?”

“Your pretending not to know tells me that your dragon is still very much alive,” Dr. Winter said. “Use the time you have to search your soul. Because just like Bilbo, your dragon will have to be slain before the treasure can be reclaimed.”

“Dr. Winter, I—”

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go. The nurse has just walked in with a healthy dose of Percocet, and I’m not going to say no to another round!” He hung up.

April wished she hadn’t called him. Talking to Dr. Winter was the verbal equivalent of being a cat who chased a beam of light on a wall: all flashes of brilliance, but no tangible substance.