The idea, Thomas knew, wasn't as preposterous as it seemed. For heterosexual men, simply glancing at a beautiful woman lit up the reward systems of the brain. Neuromarketing firms had funded hundreds of so-called 'endogenous opoid' studies, trying to unravel the alchemy of images and the male erection—adding layer after layer of cultural reinforcement to what was at best a basic tendency. Then there was the unnerving discovery of neural mechanisms dedicated to assessing the sexual vulnerability of women. Or the notorious study that mapped the brains of men watching Jodie Foster's rape scene in The Accused, suggesting that they found it even more titillating than run-of-the-mill pornography. The now infamous Time magazine headline, IS EVERY MAN A RAPIST? still surfaced from time to time in the press.

Was the image of a porn star slicing her way to bliss a kind of visual narcotic? Could that be it? Had it simply turned him on in some dark and primal way? Hatred and lust, after all, predated mammalian love by a few hundred million years.

Thomas cursed, rubbed his eyes again. What a fucked up animal a human being was. Well and truly.

The Thomas Bible animal in particular.

Stars, he chided himself. You came out here to enjoy the fucking stars.

They were beautiful, like motes in morning sunlight, forever falling in vast gravitational drafts.

Watch the fuckers, then. Absorb the awe and beauty…

Breathe deep.

Absorb …

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard clicking at the patio door. He cursed himself when he realized he'd forgotten to let out Bart.

Mia was right. He was more than jumpy. Jumpy-jumpy.

'Why couldn't you remind me I'm an idiot before I warmed up?' he said, fighting his way free of his sleeping bag. In the gloom, Bartender was little more than an imbecilic, Cheshire grin. Thomas absently scratched the old boy's ears, then crawled back into his cotton and polyester cocoon.

His heart hammered in his ears.

Calm down. Everything's fine. You're safe.

Safe.