By the time the day was over I could barely think, I was so feverish. I drove home with a raging headache and fell into bed with my clothes still on and a Christmas corsage from one of the students still pinned to my blouse. I succumbed to a deep, feverish slumber that was plagued by convoluted dreams: my students storming my apartment, Joy and Missy cooking dinner in my kitchen with Greg doing karaoke in the living room, Jack on the big screen staring down at me in the front row and reaching out his hand. He was holding the keys to my car and telling me he was taking it back.

The jangle of the phone roused me that evening. Still half-asleep, I picked up. A ringing in my ears interfered with the voice on the other end; it took two rounds of, “I’m sorry, who is this?” before I finally heard “Kate Gordon, Jack Harrington’s assistant.”

I forced myself to sit up, wincing against the jackhammer banging inside my skull. “Um … okay,” I said, not sure what she expected.

“Jack isn’t there, is he?”

Huh? “Why would he be?” was my baffled response.

“Well, I don’t know, but I’ve been looking for two days, and I’m running out of ideas. Has he contacted you?”

I was so confused I wanted to cry. What was she talking about? “I haven’t talked to Jack since June. Why can’t you find him?”

“If he contacts you, have him call me, okay?”

“Yeah, all right, but why can’t you find him?”

“Because he’s left without telling anyone where he was going.” She swore. “Look, don’t tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Who would I tell?”

“I don’t know—just don’t, all right? Tell him to call me.” She hung up.

I dropped the phone and lowered myself back onto the pillow. Trying to form thoughts was like trying to swim through Elmer’s glue. Where was Jack? Why didn’t he tell anyone he was leaving? The small part of my brain that still functioned was worried, but the rest of me was too sick to care. I surrendered to the smothering sleep that rolled over me and dreamed of Jack zooming past my apartment while I screamed at him to slow down. There was a phone in my hand, and it started ringing. I stared at it as it smiled at me, its numbers curving like lips. When I talked to it, the mouth formed by the buttons moved. I surfaced from sleep with the phone in my hand and a faint voice emanating from the earpiece. Utterly confused, I held it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Grace?”

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

I didn’t recognize the voice. “I’m sick. Who is this?”