“It was always punk kids,” I said. “We’re punk kids with wrinkles. And for the love of everything holy, don’t say mares.”

“Had a terrible dream last night. You died. You got lynched and used for a piñata. Saw it clear as a vision. Spent the whole day in a funk. Finally occurred to me to give you a buzz. Glad that you answered the phone.”

“In this universe, I did. Universes overlap. Bands on a radio dial.”

“You definitely croaked in one of the other ones,” he said. “Maybe I glimpsed your unhappy future. To be honest with you, your unhappy future is the least of what troubles me as I fall asleep each night. My dreams insist we all have a dark cloud headed our way. An asteroid is gonna level everything. Gets worse too.”

“The jailers need to let you out of your cage to exercise more,” I said.

“Soon enough, I’ll walk through the door, scot free.”

“Why not today? Enjoying the accommodations?”

“It ain’t the worst. Anyway, I have a different idea: You’re a dead man. Been dead for years. Somebody you shoulda whacked, you didn’t. They got you instead. Everything you experience is a fading dream.”

“There’s a movie like that already.”

“Magical indigenous blood flows in your veins, right? Which means you got access to the Aboriginal Dreamtime, or whatever islanders call it.”

“Wrong landmass; wrong culture. It becomes clear that you’ve lost the plot.” Sweat trickled down my jaw and under the collar of my nightshirt. Adeyemi wasn’t capable of offending my delicate sensibilities. I couldn’t deny that his words struck a chord of unease. Even a stab in the dark finds its target occasionally.

“Get a picture in your head. I’m chilling in a deserted rec room in my bathrobe. The Rockford Files is on pause on the flat screen and I’m chowing Italian ice cream. A junkyard dog attorney is sitting across the table. He’s also chowing on Italian ice cream. My shit is together, Coleridge. Don’t ever doubt it. Where are we on the case?”

I didn’t care if he had a team of attorneys eating ice cream with him under a cone of silence; I provided an edited-for-television account of my adventures that was essentially identical to the written report I’d turned in, except with more expletives. Considering his status as a prisoner of the federal government, I assumed the conversation was being recorded and transcribed in real time.

“I have to warn you, somebody is trying to wave me off,” I said in conclusion.

“Man, that’s a lot of beating around the bush,” he said.

“It’s a big bush. Your attorney and I should get together. We meet in person, I can be more forthcoming.”

“Your sitrep nixed accidental death for Sean. You aren’t one hundred percent sold on suicide. That’s ominous, ain’t it? Off the record, have you ruled out murder?”

“No.”

“Goddamn it,” he said.

“Do you want me to proceed?”

“I’m having second thoughts. Getting fond of you, Coleridge. You push any harder, these people will react. You bebop back to Horseheads, into their yard, they’ll sic the whole kennel on you. We both know you’ll have to go back if you mean to finish this thing.” He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, I want you to proceed. Proceed until your nerve breaks or the wheels fly off the wagon.”