The voices faded into dreamless sleep. A swollen pool of blackness, like an abscess in time.

“You haven’t slept in how long?” said the paramedic.

“Seventy-two hours,” I said. And then, as an afterthought, added, “… ish.”

I was rounding to the nearest day, of course. I had neither the time nor the patience to provide exact measurements for my insanity.

Even though I felt fine—all things considered—the paramedics had me lie down on a stretcher so they could determine how “fine” I was for themselves. Judging from the looks they exchanged, I was failing with prowess.

Imogen, meanwhile, was standing over me—as close as the paramedics would allow, at least—shaking her head like I was the saddest thing she had ever seen. Like a blind orphan with cancer, petting my puppy and dearest friend, Scruffles, who I didn’t realize was dead.

Normally, I would’ve appreciated the attention—even if it was just pity attention. However, I was a little preoccupied with the event that I was currently referring to in my head as What the Fuck Just Happened?

“Are you seeing a doctor?” said the paramedic.

“I have a psychiatrist,” I said.

“Are you on any medication?”

“Belsomra.”

“How’s that working?”

I glanced from him, to the other paramedic checking my vitals, to the police officer interrogating Holden and Wynonna, and back to him.

“Less than desirable?” I offered.

“But your doctor still has you taking it?”

“I mean, it’s not like it’s worse than the others.”

“What else have you taken?”

“Ambien, Lunesta, Rozerem, Sonata…” I said, feeling a bit like a wizard rattling off magical words. “Valium—”

“Valium?” said the paramedic.

“I’ve had chronic insomnia since I was nine,” I said. “We’ve made the rounds.”

“And you say this is normal for you? Passing out like this?”

“It isn’t abnormal.”

“Was there anything about this particular instance that was abnormal?”

Wynonna seemed to overhear this question. She looked at me, and I looked at her. Our gazes interlocked for a staggering nanosecond before we hastily looked away, embarrassed.

“Nope,” I said. “Completely normal.”

“It’s true what they say,” said Holden. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

“What part of breaking and entering is a ‘good deed’?” said Principal Allegra Durden. (Yes, like the antihistamine.) Aka Holden’s mom. She emphasized “good deed,” air-quoting with her index and middle fingers.

Like Holden, Principal Durden was small-framed—barely an inch taller than her son. Her size, however, had no effect on the sheer intimidation her presence inspired. Though she and Holden shared the same features—black hair, dark eyes, intense mouth—she wore them with a certain edge. A deadliness of sorts. Perhaps it came with the territory of employment in the public school system. It probably didn’t help that she was called in on a school holiday to assume the role of Dispenser of Disciplinary Action.