Patrick leaves, and doors start to open. First his study. Then the metal file cabinet next to the window. Then the closet where I suppose my laptop and files have been living for the past year. While he’s gone, Morgan shuffles through another set of papers. “Here’s the team,” he says, handing me a copy. At least he hasn’t said “my” again. If he did, I might have to slap him.

The team leader, of course, is Morgan LeBron himself. There’s a short bio after his name, including a reference to his latest position: Chair, Department of Linguistics, Georgetown University. Underneath, the rest of us are in alphabetical order: first Lin Kwan, and her credentials, which include the word “former”; then me, also “former.” Each instance of that word is a poke in the eye.

But I’m not ready for the gut punch that follows.

The third surname on the list is Rossi. First name, Lorenzo.

Chapter Twenty-four

TWENTY-FOUR

It’s been so long since I’ve used my laptop, I’m worried it might not power up, that a year of nonuse will have sent it into the same dormant silence I fell into. But it’s obedient, like an old friend waiting for a phone call, or a pet sitting patiently at the door until its owner comes home. I trace a finger over its smooth keys, wipe a smudge from the screen, and collect myself.

A year is a long time. Hell, when the FIOS in our house went down for two hours, it seemed like the end of the world.

Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours is a lifetime longer than two, which is why I need a moment before I walk out of this house, start the Honda, and follow Morgan to the lab where I’ll be spending three days a week from now until I finish fixing the president’s brother.

Also, I need a moment to sift through my files, the ones I copied and kept at home so I didn’t have to lug the same shit back and forth to my campus office. There are reports I don’t want Morgan to see, not until I can speak to Lin.

The bottom folder is the one I want, the folder with the red X on its front flap. Patrick has already gone to work, and Morgan is out in his Mercedes making phone calls, likely gloating to Reverend Carl about what a fantastic team he’s put together, which leaves me here in the paneled room with its humming window air-conditioning unit and—I don’t know—about five million pounds of books. They don’t weigh that much, but the teetering piles of texts and journals are like academic mesas littering the rec room.