I’ve slept less than four hours and wake with the hazy sensation that something’s wrong. I had horrible dreams—locked in a dark cage like a gladiator, hearing cheers and lions pacing the arena above. Visions of a panicked gazelle. Flash of teeth. Stop, I tell myself. My head is pounding, my breath foul. The house is quiet, and I imagine my parents whispering over coffee, fearful to wake me, perhaps suspecting my nasty hangover. But when I stumble downstairs, the kitchen’s empty. There’s a note on the counter: Went to Mama’s Boy for breakfast, call if you want anything. The thought of food makes my stomach roil, so I settle for the cold coffee at the bottom of the pot.

I check my phone.

Out of a sense of loyalty or guilt or perhaps a better understanding than me that this might be my last case, Oliver has invited me to the station to watch the interviews.

All the way there, I’m running through scenarios of how to avoid Truman and what I’ll say to Teddy when I see him. I figure my best bet is to take the front entrance and try to duck into the observation room without Truman noticing. But I’m not sure how to handle Teddy. My mind’s wrecked, still rattled by whatever concoction was in the hunch punch last night and hazy with lack of sleep.

Turning into the station lot, I catch a glance of myself in the rearview mirror. I look awful. The bristly hair and bags under my eyes give a strange, slightly unhinged impression.

Truman and Oliver are already here. No sign of Teddy yet, but there are a surprisingly large number of vehicles I don’t recognize out front.

I dodge a guy unloading a camera from a van and another on his cell phone and enter through the lobby with my head down, so focused on blending into the background that I don’t see the man barreling toward me until he’s breathing into my face.

“We’ve been waiting three hours,” he growls. He’s medium height, wearing an ill-fitting dark suit, and somehow—in spite of my civilian clothes—has pegged me as a detective.

I look up to find the station crawling with young men in various states of soberness. One’s on the floor, with his back against a bench, feet splayed, mouth agape, and snoring loudly. Another’s wrapped into a ball with an arm tucked under his head. There’s a faint smell of stale beer mixed with vomit, and Amy rounds the corner with her lips curling in disgust.

The man blocks my path.