The doctor's a little startled when I call her on a Sunday morning, but she also sounds relieved to hear from me.

I explain to her that I want her help in order to locate the author of the case history that I've been puzzling over. "Maybe if I talk to the author, or even to the patient, I can find out why his seizures stopped so suddenly. Maybe this guy did something, or had something happen to him, that could work for Jim."

"H'm," she says. "Well, it's a long shot, but I guess it can't hurt. I like it better than your other idea, anyway."

I grate my teeth to keep myself from forcibly reminding her that the "idea" she's referring to - - the plan of letting Jim have continuous seizures for a couple of days - - is Jim's idea, not mine. I want this woman's help, and arguing about her statements isn't going to get me anywhere.

"I should be able to locate the researcher for you, at any rate," she continues briskly. "He's a neurologist, so he should be listed in the directory I have of board-certified neurologists. Give me that name again," she asks, and I can hear a pen scritching as I spell the name to her.

"Okay, I have to pop in at the office later, and I'll look the guy up when I do. I'll give you a call with what I find," she promises, and hangs up.

With a feeling that I've finally set the wheels in motion on something that may possibly be productive, I head for breakfast and a shower.

* * * * * *

I spend the rest of the morning working on readings and outlines for class. It's a relief to read something academic, something I can look at with distance and cool objectivity. I need this break, need the chance to think about a topic other than finding a cure for my friend.

Jim channel-flips for a while, then goes on a cleaning frenzy. He starts with the bathroom, and from time to time I hear him muttering in there as he finds House Rule violations to be annoyed about. From what I can hear, most of his comments seem to be directed at the ever-present reminders left behind by my mop of hair.

Okay, so I have a lot of hair. I've never quite understood why it bugs Jim so much. I mean, if he ever remarried, and she had long hair, would he make such a big deal of it? Would he follow her around with a special filter for the shower drain? Would he curse every time he found a long, curling strand in the sink?

I snicker at the thought of Jim laying down House Rules to a new bride, and I'm still laughing softly to myself as Jim comes out of the bathroom, sponge in hand.

"Something funny, Sandburg?" he says belligerently.

"Uh...something I was reading, Jim," I lie blithely.

"Huh," he grunts. "Well, if you can tear yourself away from that unusually funny anthropology reading, maybe you can help me out here. The kitchen's filthy. If you do the dishes and countertops, I'll start in on the floor." He smiles, taking the seriousness out of his mock-grumpy words.

Of course, I'm elbow deep in suds when the phone rings. Jim answers it.

"Ellison." Pause. "Oh...hello, Doctor. Yeah, he's here, but he's doing dishes. Yeah, hang on." Jim grabs paper and a pen. "Okay, got it. I'll tell him." Pause. "Yes, I'm fine. No...not yet." Pause, then a tense change in Jim's neutral tone of voice. "No, Doctor, I still won't promise that. I appreciate your concern, and we appreciate your help. Good-bye." He hangs up, blows out a deep breath, then looks at me.

"She gave me the phone number and e-mail address of some other specialist, in San Francisco. What's this about, Chief?"

"Just a possible lead, Jim. Someone I want to contact," I explain reluctantly, still with my hands plunged into the dishwater.

He frowns. "Sandburg, I'm not excited about getting dragged off to another specialist. I've had enough of doctors for a while."

"It's nothing like that," I shake my head. "I just want to talk to the guy. I won't involve any of the Sentinel stuff, Jim, I promise."

"Why? What does this guy know about my nervous system that you don't?"

I almost choke on that casually-offered statement of faith in my abilities. "He...had a patient, once, who may have had the same problem, but got better." I take a deep breath. "Jim, please. Let me just pursue this. I don't want to get your hopes up," or mine, "until I know something."

"Okay," he agrees. He eyes the sink. "Those dishes aren't going to wash themselves, Chief."

I grin at him and, impulsively, scoop up a hefty handful of suds in the palm of my hand, hiding the motion from Jim. When he turns back to his task of floor-scrubbing, I stretch out my arm and delicately lay the quivering blob of bubbles onto the top of Jim's head. It rests there like a dollop of whipped cream on a sundae, apparently unnoticed by the victim.

You see, if all goes well, someday Jim will get to use his senses properly again. And I won't be able to sneak up on him and try things like this. So, I'd better enjoy it while it lasts.

I return to innocently washing dishes, and smiling to myself.

Wait for it.

"Sandburg!"

I turn and run for the balcony, but slip on the wet floor. I can only sit there laughing as Jim retaliates with TWO large handfuls of soapsuds, rubbed thoroughly into my hair as I struggle.

Well, it was still worth it.

Part Thirty-Two

That evening after dinner, I sit down at my laptop and compose an e-mail message to the neurologist in San Francisco, deciding that might be safer than calling him and trying to wing it. I use my academic role as a cover, saying that I'm a psychology PhD candidate interested in unusual acquired (as opposed to congenital) seizure disorders and their effects on human personality.

"The case study you described in your article certainly qualifies as a seizure disorder resulting from an unusual poisoning episode," I write. "I would be interested to know whether the subject's personality changed with the advent of the seizures, or after their spontaneous remission. Perhaps, with your permission, I could interview your subject and perform psychometric testing. If this is not possible, perhaps you could consult your office notes on the subject for further details not outlined in your article."

I stop for a moment, mentally cross my fingers, and add one more paragraph.

"In the process of collecting subjects for my study, I have run across one individual with a seizure disorder acquired very much in the same manner as your subject. He has been told by his physician that his problem is essentially untreatable. Should I find out any helpful information relating to a possible treatment from interviewing your original subject, I would also like to pass that on to the treating physician for review."

I glance over what I've written. Well, it's not entirely the truth, but it's close enough to the truth that I should be able to keep it straight. If I am allowed to interview the subject, I'll have to review what little I remember from my undergraduate Psych minor days or coerce one of the Psych department fellows to tag along with me.

Nervously, I sign it and hit "send".

That was the easy part; now comes the waiting. I stand up and stretch out the kinks I've developed from sitting in front of the computer for too long.

I head for the living room, where I'm surprised to find Jim sitting on the couch hunched over a notepad. Not a usual Jim sort of thing to do. He doesn't even have the TV on. I sit down next to him, fluffing a cushion and sticking it behind my slightly-aching back.

Upon closer inspection, it looks like he's making a list. I nudge him with one elbow. "Grocery list?"

He grimaces. "Not really. Supply list and to-do list. In case we have to...you know, for Friday night."

Oh.

Suddenly, I wish I hadn't asked. But...dammit, even though I'm hoping with all my heart to come up with an alternative solution, I know that I need to be involved in the planning of this venture. I can't just close my eyes and hope it will go away.

"Can I see?" I ask softly.

Slowly, he hands it over. In Jim's precise handwriting, he has the page organized into "Supplies" and "To Do" sections. The first part seems sensible enough: sports drinks, easily digestible food, extra sheets and blankets, things like that. It looks like he's given up the idea of starting an I.V. on himself, anyway.

It's the second section that causes my breath to catch and my vision to blur with sparkling unshed tears:

Meet with lawyer, get Sandburg named power of attorney. Pay all outstanding bills. Review disability insurance policy. Write out advanced directive. Make out will.

Make out will.

I fling the notepad away from me, violently, as the impact of those words hits me. I don't really realize that I've jumped up and ran until I'm fumbling open the balcony door.

Undoubtedly, Jim will follow me out here...but for a few seconds I'm alone. I lean against the wall, feeling the foundations of my world tremble, feeling a chill creep into my soul despite the warmth of the evening.

Part of me, the coldly rational part, knows that he's just being sensible by thinking of these things. It's what a soldier going off to war would do, and Jim has been a soldier. He's thinking of me, and of his family, not wanting us to have to deal with anything that he can streamline ahead of time before he goes into battle against his body.

I don't want to think about it. It was one thing to hear Dr. Philpott threaten and bluster about Jim's safety if we try this. Somehow, I had the idea that Jim didn't really believe the risks, and that his sense of invulnerability might somehow protect him from harm. But to see it written out, in his own hand, like that...I now know that he has accepted the very real possibility that he might not survive his ordeal.

Soft footsteps sound behind me as Jim joins me on the balcony.

"Chief, I'm sorry," he says, coming up close by my side. "I was afraid you would react like that, but I thought it was better that you knew...that I was making preparations. Just in case." There's no hurt in his voice, no defensiveness, just sad resignation.

"I know," I whisper raggedly, staring straight ahead into the lights of the city. "I'm just still hoping that none of it will be necessary." I can't look at him. If I do, I'll lose it completely.

"You've got five more days, Blair. If anyone can come up with an answer, it will be you." He places a hand on my shoulder, turning me slightly toward him. "But if you don't...do I still have your promise to help? To stay by my side, to watch over me as my Guide?"

Reluctantly, I look at him, nodding with a quick dip of my chin. "I promised you, Jim. I'll be there," I whisper.

For a few minutes, neither of us says anything. I turn back to my view of the city, leaning against the wall, listening to the faint traffic sounds from far off. I slip almost into a semi-meditative state, my own private little zone-out.

I jump slightly when Jim speaks again, even though his voice is so low I can barely hear it.

"Chief, there's something else I want you to promise."

I swallow, trying in vain to ease the ache in my throat, and my heart. "Sure, Jim," I answer, trying to keep my tone light. "Anything."

"If we do this, I want us to go into it...together. As a team. Without any old wrongs or misunderstandings between us." He draws his hand over his eyes. "Damn...Chief, you're better at this sort of thing than I am. Just..."

Oh, Jim. I move closer to him as his voice gets even quieter.

"Blair, if there's anything I've ever done or said to hurt you...and I know there must be, after all the time we've spent together...will you tell me? So that I can know, and ask your forgiveness? In case..."

He's unable to finish his sentence. I put my arm around his waist. "Jim, don't. You'll be okay, and then you'll be embarrassed that you said all of this." I grin through my own tears. "Although maybe I should really milk it for everytime you yelled at me for leaving wet towels on the bathroom floor."

He looks down at me, not responding to my attempt to lighten the mood. "I mean it, Chief. I want us to be okay, before we try this."

"If we try this, Jim," I correct gently. "If. Don't give up yet, man."

"All right, if." He slips an arm around my shoulders. "Are we okay, then?"

"We're okay," I whisper.

Part Thirty-Three

Jim basically kicks me out of the house in the morning.

"I know you've got stuff to do over at Rainier, Sandburg. Go ahead and go over; I'll be fine."

I frown. "You're sure? I was just going to wait until the last minute, then come home right after class. I don't want to leave you here alone all morning."

"I'll be fine, Chief," he insists. "I'm going to clean out the basement storage area. That should keep me occupied for hours."

I grin up at him. "Beware the Sentinel with a nesting instinct." I reach for my backpack and sling it onto my shoulder. "You won't try to drive, will you?"

Just for a second, there's a flash of pain in his eyes, quickly covered. "No. I can't, Chief. Dr. Philpott notified the DMV; my license is temporarily suspended because of the seizures." He straightens up and tries to smile. "But I shouldn't need anything."

"Okay, if you're sure you'll be okay. I could use some time in my office, to tell the truth." I pause at the doorway for a moment, stalling.

The real truth...well, I'm not hovering because I'm worried about Jim having seizures while I'm gone. It's just that after last night's conversation on the balcony, I'm acutely aware of how few hours there really are between now and Friday evening. I lay awake last night for a long time, thinking, after we'd talked. I guess I'm reluctant to give up any time I have left with my friend.

"Go! I may not be functioning one hundred percent, Sandburg, but I can still whip your ass!" He waves a mock-threatening hand in my direction. I git.

* * * * * *

After I complete my one o'clock lecture and the students file out, I trudge back to my office. Not one of my better sessions, really. I've been so preoccupied with Jim, that it's been hard to drum up the proper amount of teaching enthusiasm.

How long, I muse, can a person survive in this state of perpetual worry, before it takes its physical toll? I remember the experiments from undergraduate psych courses: the lab animals reared in constant stress who failed to thrive and gain weight. I suppose with a human being, the real world and its comfortable everyday concerns creep in eventually, a defense mechanism to provide some relief from the constant emotional bombardment.

All I know is that my body may be here, but my mind and heart are not fully engaged in what I'm doing...because they're busy watching over one stubborn Sentinel.

I sigh and unlock my office door, breathing in the slight hint of academic mustiness that I always notice: the comforting cluttered aroma of old books and nameless tribal artifacts. I set my backpack down with a thump on my desk and check the office phone for messages that might have come in while I was in class. No calls, not from Jim or anyone else.

Messages...I swing around and grab my laptop, opening the e-mail program.

And there it is: one piece of e-mail from someone at ucsf.edu. This will be my answer. It could be Jim's salvation, or the death of my hopes that we'll be able to escape the seizure ordeal. With hands that shake only slightly, I open the message.

"Dear Mr. Sandburg:

Thank you for your interest in my May 1997 Neurology Annals article. Regrettably, I must inform you that the subject of the case report is now deceased, as he was killed in a motor vehicle accident only two years ago according to the county authorities.

However, upon reviewing my chart notes on the patient in question, I note that they are unusually extensive. I recall that I had a medical student spending time in my office that month, and he appears to have done an exceptionally thorough job of taking a history. If you believe these notes will me of any help to you, I would be glad to arrange to have them faxed to you. The subject's name will of course be deleted for confidentiality purposes, just as in the article."

I nod to myself, cautious relief flooding through me. Okay, so I won't be able to interview the guy. But this might be even better, and quicker. I tap out a properly grateful answer, giving the number for the Anthro department's fax machine, and send it off with a victorious keystroke.

As soon as the message has been sent I gather up all my stuff and run down to the department secretary's office.

"Hey, Blair," she smiles at me. "What's the big hurry?"

I smile as winningly as I can. "Look, Diane, can you do me a favor? I'm expecting a very important fax from San Francisco. If you'll call me at home when it comes in, I'll come back and pick it up."

"Sure, Blair. Oh...that's right. Leila Van Horn was looking for you earlier, too."

Leila...oh, crap, probably about that deal I made with her, the whole "dinner at Cavanaugh's" thing. Good thing we haven't decided on a date for this little overpriced evening out, 'cause I am most definitely not in the mood for that right now.

"Uh...thanks. Did she say where she'd be?" So that I can be somewhere else?

"The library, I think."

"Ah. Well, maybe I'll stop by on my way home," I gabble, suddenly feeling pursued. "Thanks, Diane."

"Anytime, Blair. I'll keep an eye out for your fax."

Part Thirty-four

The fax doesn't arrive until almost six that afternoon. Diane calls me from her office to let me know, true to her word.

"I'm going home, Blair, but if you want me to I can just slide it under your office door. It's three pages, so that should be no problem."

"Hey, great!" I look around at the disarray that surrounds me. "I'll, uh, pop down this evening and pick it up."

When I arrived home after class today, Jim had finished cleaning out the basement storage unit. Meaning that he'd sorted through his meager and scrupulously well-cared for belongings, and carried up four or five boxes of my clutter for me to deal with. So now I sit on the floor, attempting to make some order out of it all.

Personally, I don't understand the point. I mean, isn't that what basements are for? You're not supposed to be able to find anything in them, right? But Jim wants less clutter in the storage area, and I'm happy to oblige if it will please him. This week, neither of us is going to pick fights over petty differences.

I'm almost dazed by the amount of junk I've accumulated since I moved in with Jim. Oh, some of this stuff is old and dates back to the days when I was living in the warehouse, but most of it is relatively new. Papers, photos, impulse purchases, gag gifts, old greeting cards, clothes that have gotten too frayed even for me to wear, unclassifiable miscellaneous tidbits of stuff. Once, I could have packed all of my important belongings into a bag or two and left the rest behind without a second glance. Now, I'm struck by how rooted I've become: both to this place, and to its other inhabitant.

Even the lines between "his" and "mine" have become blurred, which is pretty amazing when you consider the differences in our taste. Over the last couple of years, I've been introduced to a new concept, a new possessive: "our".

Our food. Our newspaper. Our bills. Our view. Our neighbors.

And our problem, not just Jim's.

Today I've got the leisure to sit on the floor and sort old papers because Jim is in the kitchen cooking dinner, and has ordered me not to help him at all. And he's not ordering a pizza, or throwing together some spaghetti, or even omelettes...he's the picture of deep and serious concentration as he makes eggplant Parmesan, by my recipe. Jim doesn't really even like eggplant, though he tolerates it when smothered with enough goodies. No: this painstakingly cooked ethnic meal, loaded with more garlic and herbs than he would really prefer to eat, is a shyly self-conscious offering to me, his friend and Guide. The idea touches me beyond words.

I set the cordless phone carefully back down, precariously balanced atop a stack of old term papers. "Hey, Jim," I ask casually. "What's the schedule on dinner? Do I have time to run down to the university?"

Jim opens the oven door and peers in. "Actually, this is starting to bubble, and the salad is ready."

"So that would be a 'no', then. All right, I'll go after dinner."

He shakes his head. "It'll stay warm if I put the oven on low, won't it?"

"Yeah, it keeps for hours." I grin. "That's one of the reasons I like it."

"Then go ahead and go run your errand, Chief." He sets a bottle of red wine on the table, and uncorks it. "That way, you'll be able to relax and enjoy dinner."

"Okay. I'll be back as quick as I can." I grab my keys and drive over to Rainier, taking a few shortcuts that help me get around the tail end of rush-hour traffic.

Hargrove Hall is deserted when I get there, except for the cleaning people and a few straggling students. As promised, the fax is under my door, all three pages of it. I snatch it up, start to look at it, then think better of the idea and stuff it into my jacket pocket. This can wait until later.

I head back to my car, back home to my dinner. Despite the tension of the last few days, I laugh delightedly to myself: who else can claim tonight that he will get to eat a meal personally prepared for him by a Sentinel?

* * * * * *

The eggplant Parmesan comes out wonderfully tasty, dripping with cheese; the salad is crisp and perfect, and the wine fills a rich and fruity supporting role. We linger over dinner, savoring the harmony both of the food and of our spirits. We don't talk very much, but somehow the very silence itself seems full of an unspoken bond.

After dinner, I take a glass of wine with me and curl up on the couch with the fax from San Francisco. It takes me a while to puzzle out the medical student's handwriting and abbreviations, so I decide to take additional paper and re-transcribe it for myself as much as possible. I'm reminded, obliquely, of the hours I've spent scrutinising ancient documents or tribal accounts.

On a separate sheet of paper, I make a list of terms that I don't understand, so that I can look them up later. This whole process takes me about an hour, and at the end of it I have four closely written pages of notes with which to work.

Then I sit back and read through my expanded version. The first section, where the medical student is recounting the events that have occurred in the patient's life in the six months since he was seen, gives me the most hope. Paradoxically, then, I skip that, heading instead for the technical neurologist-speak mumbo-jumbo that makes up the rest of the account.

As near as I can tell, the guy was essentially completely normal when he came back for his belated follow-up exam. There's no mention of enhanced senses per se, but the student notes that the patient's vision was 20/15 and his hearing completely intact. There's a section describing the neurologic exam in detail, some of which I recognize from watching Jim being examined, but the student summarizes his findings with the statement "completely neurologically intact". There's a statement about spontaneous remission of the seizures, and the note closes with a recommmendation to return in another six months.

I return to the narrative in the first section. "Patient is a thiry-four year old white married male who returns today for follow-up on his seizure disorder. He is on no medications. He states that he has had no seizures for five months, and is here to get a note so that his driver's license can be reinstated. He is feeling well and has no complaints. He states that he experienced almost-daily seizures for about one month after his release from the hospital and that they ceased abruptly. Since onset of the seizures, he has been on disability but now wishes to return to work as a security guard.

"Social history: lives with wife, three-year old son and 7-month old twin girls. While on disability has been the primary caregiver for the children. Patient notes that the seizures ceased around the time that one of the twins was hospitalized during a severe viral respiratory infection."

That's it. I read it again, and a third time. Nothing jumps out at me, other than the stated fact that the seizures stopped when one of the children was hospitalized. But that doesn't make any sense to me. How could hospitalizing the child affect the parent? The stress? Seems like that should bring on seizures, not stop them.

I glance surreptitiously over at Jim, who's watching an old movie on television. I hope he doesn't see the crushing disappointment on my face, the evidence that I've failed him.

He looks over at me. Damn, he must have somehow felt my eyes upon him. "Hey, Chief, how goes the research?" he asks lightly.

"Oh, all right," I answer nonchalantly. "Nothing yet, but the handwriting's pretty bad and I've still got a lot left to go over. But," and I half-fake a yawn, "I'm a little short on sleep. Think I'll turn in and give it a try in the morning. You know, sleep on it, like we were talking about the other night."

I slip into my room before he can call me on the lie, forgetting momentarily that Jim can no longer risk casually listening to my heart rate.

Part Thirty-Five

For what seems like the fiftieth time, I roll over and thrash about, trying to get comfortable. Tonight, the bed that usually feels blissful seems lumpy and hard; the bedding feels scratchy. I hear every little creak and squeak in the building. Huh, maybe I've suddenly acquired Sentinel abilities.

Not funny, Sandburg. Definitely not funny.

No, as much as I'd like to blame my body's discomfort for my inability to sleep, I have to admit that it's my mind keeping me awake. My mind, and my conscience. As my brain frantically processes and re-processes the problem, re-reads the notes from the San Francisco doctor...as my mind works away diligently, my conscience berates me.

You have no right to lose faith, it says. No right to give up hope. No right at all.

Angrily, I mentally shove aside the proddings of that inconvenient little voice. Jiminy Cricket is the last thing I need right now.

Again I ask myself: how did I get into this mess? My best friend, rather than submit to a desk job and a lifetime of the threat of seizures, wants to try an unproven treatment that's suicidally dangerous. Oh, and he's got my promise, my word, to aid and abet him in this whole proceeding. Unless, of course, I can somehow find a solution in the next few days, working with next to nothing.

This is nuts, Jim. How can you expect this of me?

He's counting on you, responds my conscience. He expects great things of you, because you are his Guide and he has already seen you work wonders.

I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling, as if I expect it to offer some great inspiration. All right. If I'm not to be allowed to sleep, I may as well try to use my time well. I sit up and head over to my little desk, flicking on the lamp. I scrounge up some random paper and a pen, and sit, thinking.

Okay, let's make a list of every possible variable introduced into the life of our mystery man, the patient in the case study from twenty years ago. First of all, let's give the poor dude a name. Let's call him...Mr. Magoo. It's taken, but who cares?

He had his toxic exposure, he was hospitalized and he went home. Then, a month later, he spontaneously got better. What else happened in that time?

Well, he got to stay home with the kids, at least one of whom was sick. So, what about this virus? I don't know what it was, and probably never will. There's too many different kinds to choose from. And I don't think that randomly exposing Jim to every kiddie flu we can find is such a good idea. If that's the answer, I'd really rather not think about it.

So, write down everything associated with babies: diapers, spit-up, crying...okay, this isn't an area I know much about. Maybe we should just arrange for Jim to babysit sick newborn twins (plus a two-year-old) for a few days and see what happens to him. The idea makes me smile in spite of my gloom and insomnia: Jim, burping a baby, changing diapers, singing a lullaby, dragging his groggy and sleep-deprived self out of bed for the 2 a.m. feeding...

I sit up straight in my chair as words from the other night come back to me, faintly:

"I need to sleep on this..."

"Maybe it'll come to you in a dream..."

Newton was bonked on the head by an apple; Archimedes was splish-splashing in the tub (on a Saturday night, perhaps?) when he had his bright idea. Creative insight knows nothing of logic or of timing, and inevitably the great intuitive leaps come to us when we least expect them. Grumpy, discouraged, sick at heart and unable to sleep, I'm only been trying to make sure I've exhausted all the possibilities in order to make my nagging conscience shut up.

I didn't expect to actually be struck by a thought.

For once, I truly understand the meaning of that phrase. I feel like I've been flattened by that garbage truck that, so long ago, tried to ground Jim into the pavement. All of the nerve cells in my brain seem to freeze for a moment, as I try to get this flash of inspiration to take shape in my mind as a rational thought.

Sleep deprivation.

Poor Mr. Magoo, the out-of-work security guard, with his circadian rhythm no doubt messed up anyway, comes home from the hospital and plays Mr. Mom. The twin babies keep him up at all hours, the two-year-old bounces out of bed at the crack of dawn. And when the one infant gets very ill, it's probably even worse. I can picture this worried father, standing at his child's bedside, afraid to sleep lest he wake up too late...trying to be there for his baby.

I remember from the psych courses that sleep deprivation does interesting things to the brain. It's always been a favorite topic of the grad students doing their research: cheap, and they're surrounded by a campusful of subjects who never get enough sleep anyway. People get exceedingly strange when you take away their REM sleep; it's a lot like being drunk.

And even Dr. Philpott implied something about sleep recharging the neurotransmitters. Could it be, that if I can keep Jim awake long enough, that we could somehow burn all of this out of his body without subjecting it to the violence of seizures?

It's all I can do not to run out of my room and tell Jim, or call the doctor, or something. Even Archimedes was supposed to have leaped out of the tub and gone running through the town naked. But it's 11:30 at night, and I don't think that Dr. Philpott would appreciate being woken up over this. And there's no way I'm going to get Jim's hopes up until I've discussed it with her, to see if it even sounds remotely feasible.

I turn off my desk lamp and move slowly back to my bed, which suddenly seems a little more inviting than it did a while ago. I crawl in, feeling the knots in my neck and back finally loosen. As I drift off to a welcome sleep, I almost fancy I hear that little Jiminy Cricket voice again:

Rest well, Guide, for your work has only begun.

Part Thirty-Six

Since I conked out so early the night before, I'm up the next morning long before Jim...unusual in itself. But as I putter around the kitchen looking for food, I can hear him upstairs breathing the long slow breaths of deep sleep. He must have stayed up pretty late, probably worrying. The idea gives me a quick twinge of irrational guilt.

Well, Jim being asleep makes my first task of the day easier, at any rate. I pick up the phone and call Dr. Philpott to explain my idea of last night.

What seemed brilliant and insightful while alone in my darkened bedroom now seems pale, poorly thought-out, and fragile; and as I relate my whole sleep-deprivation theory to Dr. Philpott I'm afraid that she must be only listening to humor me. When I finish, I hear only silence at the other end of the line.

I can't stand it any longer. "So, what do you think?"

She answers me slowly. "Blair, you may be onto something here." A pause, and I can hear her taking a deep breath. "Certainly, it's much safer than the other scheme. And you're right, sleep deprivation can do some interesting things to the brain chemistry. It just might work, and I think you've done a fantastic job even coming up with this. But I have two concerns that you should know about before you try this."

"What?"

"First of all..." she trails off. "First, you have to realize, Blair, that you could be completely wrong. There's a change that depriving Jim of REM sleep may not only not be helpful, but that the process could actually trigger seizures. If that happens, you need to promise me that you'll back off and end the experiment."

I think for a moment. "If that happens, I won't have a choice, anyway. Jim always goes straight to sleep after a seizure. I wouldn't have a prayer of being able to keep him awake."

"The second thing...He might get pretty crazy on you, Blair. He could become extremely irrational after about the first twenty-four hours or so. You should have someone else with you to try this, so that you can take turns resting and back each other up if necessary."

"I think we can manage that," I grin into the receiver. Oh, Simon is gonna love this...but at least he's big enough to sit on Jim if it becomes necessary. And really, who else can we ask? "I'm sure that Captain Banks would be glad to help out."

"All right, then. If you can meet those two requirements, you have my unofficial blessing to try this." She sighs. "Officially, I have to advise you and Jim that there appears to be no effective treatment. That's what his chart in the office will say." She pauses. "What does Jim think of this?"

"He, um, hasn't heard it yet," I squirm. "I thought I'd bounce it off of you, first."

"Good luck," she says obscurely. "Call me if you need anything, and be sure to keep me posted. When she speaks next, I can hear a little bit of longing in her voice. "If this works...Blair, it's a shame we can't publish this, together."

Ah yes, there's a sentiment I can relate to. "Sorry," I respond lightly. "I don't think it would be a good idea. Jim gets pretty nervous about that word, 'publish'."

"Yes...it was just wishful thinking. Take care."

* * * * * *

I plan to tackle Jim with my proposal after he's had some breakfast. He's got other plans, though.

"Can you take me to run some errands today, Chief?" he says around a mouthful of toast.

I've got a pretty good idea of what those errands are, from looking at that sad little list the other night. "Uh, sure, Jim. But - -"

He looks at me with just a hint of irritation showing on his face. "We hashed this all out the other night, Blair. I need to take care of these things."

"I know, Jim. But what I wanted to say --"

"Look, it's hard enough for me to ask you to drive me around like this. I hate feeling this helpless, and I'd really rather deal with these affairs on my own. But --" Jim stops as my hand covers his mouth.

"Jim. Shut up." I remove my hand, and grin at him. "I'm trying to tell you something here, man"

"What?" he answers, somewhat testily.

"I think I may have stumbled on...on a better solution for your problem. Better that the one we've been dreading, anyway."

"What? Why didn't you tell me?"

I can only laugh at that. "I've been trying. It's like trying to keep a bull from charging." I made swooping gestures with an imaginary toreador's cape.

To his credit and my relief, Jim listens to my idea with cautious optimism.

"I'm not sure how long we'll have to keep you awake," I conclude. "We'll just have to figure out a way to test you, find out whether or not it worked. I figured we'd start with a weekend a go from there. If Simon agrees to help, I should be able to manage without missing a lot of classes." And if I do end up needing someone to cover my classes, there's always Leila...who is no doubt upping my bill to include the fancy dinner AND sexual favors.

Ah, the sacrifices I make for my friend.

Jim is nodding slowly. "It's a bit of a reach, Chief, but...hell, it does make some sort of sense. I'm willing to give it a try, though." He shudders. "It certainly sounds better than having seizures for two or three days straight. At least I'll be in my right mind."

Ummm....right. Well, mostly in your right mind, Jim. "I thought I'd call Simon, see if he can help. Or you can call him," I suggest hopefully.

"You go ahead, Chief, it's your idea." He waves at the phone, parked over on the kitchen island. "Just how are you going to keep me awake that long, anyway?" he asks as I pick up the phone, his voice curious.

"Lots of caffeine, Jim. Lots and lots of caffeine. Oh, and loud music...and stories." I can't help but allow an evil grin to appear on my face. "You, lucky man, are going to get to hear everything interesting I've ever done in my entire life. My captive audience."

"Oh, just great," he grumbles. "The Sandburg Travelogue Torture. Just what I needed."

But I can hear the gratitude behind the sarcasm, and I smile again as I dial Simon's number.

Part Thirty-Seven

Friday morning, six o'clock. I rise slowly into awareness at the sound of my insistently bleeping alarm.

It's D-Day, H-Hour. For the next seventy-two hours I will use every available resource to keep Jim more or less awake, in hopes that he can once again become the vital, fully functioning police detective that I first met so long ago.

Upstairs, I can now hear the answering echo of Jim's alarm clock, and the low groan as he responds to its auditory nudging.

I slip out of my room and pad halfway up the stairs. "Hey, Jim," I call softly...remembering with a twinge the days when I could have just called to him from my room, and know that he would have heard me. "You awake up there?"

"Uhhhh...yeah." A sigh. "You know, Chief, knowing that I'm not going to crawl back into this bed for the next three days makes it look a lot more attractive than usual."

I smile into the semidarkness. "Okay. I'm going to go start some coffee. No fair falling asleep again up there."

As I putter sleepily around the kitchen, I mentally review our plan of attack. Today should be easy for both of us. I'll get Jim moving, then head off to Rainier and take care of as many of my academic responsibilities as possible. Simon's going to take the afternoon off so that he can have a good long nap, then head over here for dinner. Looking at my shopping list, I feel vaguely like I'm merely planning an all-weekend party; I have to keep reminding myself of the reality of the situation.

So, tonight we'll have pizza and poker,(but no beer) followed by movies and popcorn as it gets later. After about midnight tonight, Simon and I plan to trade off in roughly six-hour shifts, one sleeping while the other keeps Jim company. I expect that towards the end, though, I won't get much of a chance to sleep at all.

Simon has been really cool about this. He only rolled his eyes a little when I explained the sleep-deprivation theory, and immediately offered to help without my even having to ask him. I think he'll be a big help, since I'll be no good to Jim if I don't get some sleep here and there.

Choosing seventy-two hours as our target came about partly by research, partly by guesswork. I've been around Jim when he's been up for twenty-four hours, and he doesn't do half bad. I figure it will take a couple of days without sleep to get him seriously messed up. According to the sources I looked at, though, the incidence of psychosis goes up pretty dramatically after four days without sleep.

So, we go for three days, and hope that the cure isn't worse than the disease.

Jim emerges from the bathroom and comes over to pour a cup of coffee. He picks up my shopping list and chuckles.

"Pizzas, coffee, chips, popcorn, cookies, donuts, Jolt...Chief, you're scarin' me, here. This is not the usual Purina Sandburg Chow."

I snatch my list back. "It's called bribery, Ellison. Forty-eight hours from now, when you're on your hands and knees begging me to let you sleep, I intend to distract you with a glazed old-fashioned buttermilk."

Jim appears to consider. "Yeah, that'll probably work." He grins. "For a while, anyway. Hey, Chief, I didn't think you even knew about Jolt."

"Hey, I was a teenager when that stuff came out." I shudder. "What was their motto? Twice the caffeine, and all of the sugar? I drank an entire six-pack at one sitting, once." My stomach roils uneasily at the memory.

"Why? Trying to stay awake to study?"

Suddenly, I remember why I've never told Jim this particular story. "Uh, no. It was an, uh, initiation rite, sort of." I start heading for my room. "You done in the shower?"

He grabs my elbow, ignoring my question. "Initiation rite? Blair, exactly which primitive civilization uses super-caffeinated soda pop for an initiation rite?"

I sigh. "The primitive civilization known as American higher education, Jim."

"Sandburg, you're not going to try to convince me that you were in a fraternity?" He hoots with laughter.

Oh, I am going to enjoy torturing him this weekend. "A club, not a fraternity. A dorm club, almost an anti-fraternity. Very unofficial, and most definitely co-ed." I smile in spite of myself. "That was a great bunch of people."

Jim just smirks at me. "It was a geek club, wasn't it? The truth, Sandburg, the truth!"

"Jim, if I tell you all my good stories now, how am I going to keep you awake this weekend?"

* * * * * *

After my afternoon lecture concludes, I run to the grocery store (wincing inwardly at the assortment of junk food in my cart) and then to the video rental place. I wander the aisles for a while, scoping out the movies, then eventually settle on some cheezy action flicks and comedies. Nothing too cerebral tonight.

I get back to the loft by about five o'clock. Eleven hours down already, sixty-one to go. Jim's parked on the couch watching the local news, but he gets up to help me unload the goodies. I'm not going to dignify this stuff by calling it groceries.

"Just leave the pizzas out, we'll be putting them in the oven soon anyway." I stow the Jolt in the fridge. "This stuff was a lot harder to find than it was when I was in college."

"You got everything done over at the University that you needed to?"

I nod as I pile bags of chips and cookies on the kitchen island. "Yeah. If necessary, I'll be able to get my Monday afternoon lecture covered."

"Hey, Chief," Jim stops me for a moment, with a hand on my arm. "Before Simon gets here..." He looks down at his feet for a moment, then back at my face. "Thanks for everything you're doing, Blair. I mean that." He swallows. "There's no way I could do this all on my own."

I grin at him. "Does this mean you'll lend me a wad of cash so I can take Leila the Barracuda out for dinner before she has me kidnapped and delivered to her in a burlap sack?

Part Thirty-Eight

It's ten p.m. now, and the three of us sit around the table with our piles of loose change in front of us. My turn to deal.

"Okay, the game is five-card draw. Jokers and one-eyed jacks are wild, and spit in the ocean." I start to deal, and Simon cracks up.

"Sandburg, what the hell does 'spit in the ocean' mean?"

Oops. "Um...to tell the truth, Simon, I don't remember. I think I heard it once in a movie. Just never mind that part." I continue dealing the cards, face down.

Simon sighs. "I hope that this movie didn't also include a gunfight at the poker table." He picks up his cards and looks sourly at them.

We'v been fairly evenly matched so far. I have to admit, I've been curious to see whether or not Jim plays poker any differently with his senses off-line. He's always assured me that he would never use his hearing to listen to our heart rates while we play, but I always wonder if he can somehow tell subliminally whether or not I'm bluffing.

Jim picks up his cards. "Chief, how could you deal me such a pile of crap?"

I grin at him. "I gave all the aces to Simon. After all, he's the captain."

"Yeah, but I know where you live. And how ticklish you are."

I level a stare at my partner. "Jim, Old West card sharks are not ticklish. It's beneath their dignity."

"You have dignity?"

The banter continues, along with the game. I win some hands, lose more, and start to get a bit punchy. It's after midnight, and I need to think about getting a little sleep.

Simon gets up and goes to the fridge. I sidle up next to him as he frowns at the cans of soft drinks. "Try the Jolt, Simon. Or maybe the Mountain Dew. They're not bad."

He grabs a can of Coke. "This stuff is all revoltingly sweet."

"Tell me about it," I agree. "But it's loaded with caffeine, and Jim likes it, and it'll help keep him going." I run my hands through my hair. "Think you can take over for a few hours? I'm getting a bit goofy."

He nods at me. "Get some rest, Blair. I'll pop in a movie or something." He pauses, and a slow smile appears on his face. "You know, we could alway continue the poker game tomorrow night, after you and I have both had a little rest. See how Jim plays when he's really starting to feel the effects."

"Sounds like a plan."

Jim calls from the table. "Hey, no plotting in the kitchen. It's my deal. Get back in here and take your punishment like men."

* * * * * *

Six a.m., and the alarm goes off just like it did twenty-four hours ago. I sit up in bed, momentarily disoriented.

Okay, it's Saturday morning, right? Why am I waking up so early, and why do I still feel tired?

I get out of bed and stagger out into the living room. The television's on, and Arnold Schwarzenegger is chasing someone to the accompaniment of dramatic background music. Simon and Jim are both sitting on the couch, watching with varying degrees of interest.

They both look up as I enter the room. Simon looks exceedingly glad to see me.

Oh yeah. Right. Now I remember.

"Change of shift, guys." I plop down next to Jim. "Simon, you may as well go upstairs and take a nap in Jim's bed. It's not like he's going to get to use it. And Jim..."

He goggles blearily at me. "What, Chief?"

"Grab a shower, man. And then I'm taking you out for breakfast and some fresh air." I grab the remote and put Arnold out of his misery.

* * * * * *

A shower, coffee and hot food restore Jim to some semblance of normalcy...or what passes for normal in his case. Leaving Simon back at the loft to rest up for the later onslaught, I drag Jim around town, taking advantage of the stretch of nice weather we've been having. We visit the Saturday Market, watching jugglers and street musicians; later we go poking around Chinatown, where we're both amazed at the profusion of Chinese vegetables and herbs spilling out of the shops onto the sidewalk.

Jim actually seems fascinated by some of the shops, perhaps because he's so punchy. I elbow him in the ribs to get his attention.

"You know, Jim, maybe you should get out more. Spend some more time playing tourist in your own town. There's lot here that I bet you've never seen."

He sighs. "Usually, I'm seeing it from the other side of a badge. That makes a difference." He looks down at me. "You're right, though. This down-time has made me think about some things a little differently than before."

We stop at a corner, and I study a public wall map of the downtown area. It displays the public transportation routes, and has tourist attractions marked on it. Jim watches me as I scrutinize it, looking for other activities to kill time.

"Hey, Jim! What about - -" I point to the map.

"Forget it, Chief. I've got to draw the line somewhere. You are not dragging me to the zoo." He studies me, then his watch. "And speaking of dragging, which is what you're starting to do...let's get on back to the loft and wake up Simon. I think it's his turn to baby-sit me."

"I'm doing fine," I protest. "I'm a grad student. We're not supposed to sleep. They put that in all our contracts."

"Blair, the longer I go without sleep, the more I'm going to need you at my side, awake and alert." He grimaces. "Simon tries, and he means well, but I think by tonight I'm going to need a serious dose of Sandburg Chatter."

"Never thought I'd hear you'd say that," I punch him lightly on the arm, grinning.

Part Thirty-Nine

It's after noon when we get back to the loft, so I turn Jim over to Simon's custody while I head to my room for a nap. As I close the doors, I can hear the opening sounds of another action movie starting on the VCR.

I lay there for a while, thinking. Let's see: we're now thirty hours into the Great Jim-a-thon, and so far things are going well. He's tired, but not even all that irritable yet. Certainly there's been no indication that we're going to actually trigger any seizures by this process, so I guess I can quit worrying about that.

Tonight, though...tonight, when it gets dark, and every cell in Jim's body starts screaming for sleep...that's when it will begin to get difficult. I'll need to be my most creative from here on out.

I guess I drift off, because Simon wakes me up a few hours later. Uh...more than a few, it turns out.

"What are we doing for dinner?" he asks softly, sticking his head into my dimly lit room. "We're both getting hungry out here. Takeout?"

I rub my eyes with the back of my hand. Geez, did I sleep that long? Must have needed it. "Sure. Whatever Jim wants."

Simon chuckles. "You're letting a sleep-deprived cop with bad eating habits choose the menu? Sandburg, you're spoiling him."

"He's worth it," I grin up at Simon. "Besides...he's bigger than me and he might get irrational at any moment. Oh, and he may have forgotten, but he's buying all weekend anyway. May as well give the man what he wants." I sit up in bed and reach for my shoes. "How's he doing, anyway?"

"Pretty well. I've had to watch him more closely though. He's started to nod off a couple of times." He looks back out to the living room, as if suddenly remembering his charge. "Jim? You awake?"

An answering groan. "No...but there's some one here who seems to be wearing my body, and he's awake. Sort of."

* * * * * *

Surprisingly enough, Jim opts for Mexican food, not hamburgers, so we decide to risk taking him out in public to a nearby restaurant that he and I have been to a few times. He's definitely quieter and more subdued than he was this morning, and beginning to get grumpy.

He stares vaguely at his menu, with his chin propped up wearily on one hand and his eyes unfocused. "Chief?" he asks at last. "What did I get here last time that I liked so much? That burrito with the sausage, or something...Very spicy."

"And very greasy. The chorizo burrito, Jim." I shudder slightly as I supply the name. "That stuff is gross, it's made out of miscellaneous pig parts. How can you eat it?," I continue, intentionally needling him a little bit. "Remember that time you gave me a bite, and I found - -"

"Never mind, Chief, I doubt Simon wants to hear what you found it my burrito," he answers, with some of his usual acerbity returning. "Besides, I never really believed you."

"Hey, I saved it and showed it to one of my friends in Biology. She said it looked just like a pig aorta."

Simon's reaction amuses me; I didn't think it was possible for a man with such dark skin to turn such a shade of green. "Cut it out, Sandburg," he says sharply. "Hmmm...after that, I think I'd better just get the cheese enchiladas."

After the waitress takes our order, I look at my watch. Six-thirty. I raise my glass in a toast. "We're more than halfway there, guys. Here's to success." Our water glasses clink together.

Our food, when it arrives, isn't half bad. Despite my pig-aorta experience, I like Mexican food once in a while, and this place does have some good choices...fat-free refried beans and so forth. They also make a killer margarita, but that's probably not such a good idea tonight. And the disgusting sausage story has given me an idea.

As we finish up, I make a proposal to Jim and Simon. "I think we've had enough movies for a while. When we get back to the loft, I think it's time we heard some good true-life stories. We can take turns telling them. You know...funniest moment, most embarrassing moment, best memory...that sort of thing. What do you think?"

Jim looks doubtful. "I don't know. You're the storyteller here, Chief."

"But you must have had all number of interesting things happen to you over the years, Jim." Not to mention the fact that you'll probably get less inhibited as the night wears on. "And Simon, I know you've got some tales you can tell us."

Simon grunts. "Long as we can inspect you for recording devices, Sandburg. And you can have the honor of sharing the first story."

* * * * *

Back at the loft, I wave the guys toward the living room, where we all take seats. I choose the floor, sitting cross-legged where I can see both Jim and Simon. I'm exceedingly tempted to look at Simon and start off my story with, "Hear then, O Mighty King," but I'm not sure he's familiar with the whole 'Arabian Nights' bit. And I probably don't look much like Scheherezade.

"All right. This one definitely goes into the most embarrassing-moment file. You're both going to get a good laugh at my expense. This is the Tale of the Trolley." I pause for dramatic effect.

"I was in junior high, I think in the eighth grade. The school I was at had an Ecology requirement for all of the eight graders. Towards the end of the year, we were given an assigment that sounded like a lot of fun. We were to split up in groups of two or three, and come up with a demonstration that showed the differences between 'clean' energy sources and 'polluting' energy sources."

Jim mutters something under his breath about liberal educational brainwashing, which strikes me as pretty funny...especially considering Jim's love of the great outdoors and his intolerance towards those who would spoil it.

"Hey," I add defensively, "this was, oh, about 1981. The Reagan years, man. The requirement and the course were both axed a year later. But it was a good class; I learned a lot.

"Anyway...I teamed up with my friend Jeff. He and I, well, let's just say we were sort of the class misfits. He was the class computer geek and mad scientist, and I already had a reputation as the local earth-muffin and fast-talker. We both got really good grades, though, and pretty much knew most of the stuff without having to study it more than once.

"Jeff and I decided that we wanted to graphically demonstrate the diffences between 'clean' hydroelectric power and 'dirty' fossil fuels. 'Course, it's not really that black-and-white...after all, hydroelectric power comes from dams, and those are slowly depleting the salmon population...but I didn't know that, then.

"There was a locally produced kid's cartoon show that always had the host of the show ride out from backstage on this fake little trolley, while his studio audience of children would cheer. There were always school or scouting groups making up the studio audience. All of the little kids loved the show, and anybody over the age of about eleven hated it. For some reason, we decided to use the show's trolley as our example.

"The electric one was easy; we just found a cheap battery-operated trolley car. But we couldn't find a miniature gas-powered version, and we didn't know quite how to build an internal-combustion engine ourselves from scratch." I pause for a moment, remembering Jeff the Mad Genius. "That was probably just as well, considering what we did end up doing.

"So we decided not to worry whether or not the damn thing actually went anywhere, and decided to just make it as polluting as we could. We build a model trolley out of cardboard scraps in Jeff's basement, with a toilet paper roll smokestack."

Jim frowns. "I've never seen a trolley with a smokestack."

"This one needed one, believe me." I shake my head. "We stuffed the inside with crumpled newspaper, and just before the demonstration we soaked all of the newspapers with kerosene."

"Oh, no," says Simon, starting to laugh. "You didn't."

"Yes, we did," I sigh. "We poured a whole bottle of the stuff in there. After I gave a little spiel about the differences between electricity and fossil fuels, Jeff pulled a lighter out of his pocket and lit the newspapers."

Jim's cracking up. "Chief, wasn't the teacher supervising your projects? How'd you come up with such a boneheaded idea?"

"Well, Jeff and I had a reputation, like I said. The teacher, Mr. Douglas, didn't really pay much attention to us because we were his best students. It was a required class, and there were a lot of kids in there who just screwed around. He knew we were working busily away at something, so I guess he wasn't worried.

"Anyway...as soon as Jeff lit the trolley, he just disappeared from view. Completely. There was black smoke billowing out from the smokestack and from everywhere else. To this day, I'm still not sure why the fire alarms didn't go off; I wonder if they were defective. The class loved it, for a few seconds anyway, but Mr. Douglas blew a gasket. He yelled at us to put it out, so we did.

"We weren't complete idiots. We knew we'd have to have a way to put out the fire after it had started, so we'd come prepared with a little one-shot CO2 fire extinguisher. I sprayed it on the trolley and got it under control, and we opened up all the doors and windows to air the place out. Mr. Douglas wouldn't let us finish our demonstration, and we were banished back to our seats to listen to the other students' presentations."

Now I start to get the giggles. "Okay, this is where it gets funny. I'm sitting at my desk, with this smoldering thing on my lap, and feeling unfairly persecuted...when the kid next to me leans over to look at the trolley. About halfway through some hideously boring presentation about the food chain of the mountain lion, the kid whispers, 'I dare you to light it again.' I look down, and notice that when I picked up the trolley, I'd also snatched up Jeff's lighter."

"Oh, no, Sandburg," laughs Jim. "I never figured you for a fire-setter. Tell me you didn't."

"I still don't know what came over me. It was one of those pivotal moments in history, and I've always wondered if there was some higher power at work. The really stupid thing was, I think I thought that if I just lit one corner, we could just get a little smoke, enough to crack the class up again. I figured I could just pretend it had spontaneously re-ignited.

"Well, it went up in seconds, again billowing black smoke out of it. Mr. Douglas turned to me and yelled, 'Sandburg, just get that thing outside! Now!'

"So, I picked it up, still on fire, and ran for the school entrance. The box was getting hot, though and I could see I wasn't going to make it. Then, just in front of me, I saw a nice big metal trash can.

"Fortunately for the entire school, the trash can was empty. So I tossed the trolley in there and put the lid back on, knowing the fire would be smothered. And then I went back to class."

"What happened to you? Were you expelled?" asks Jim curiously.

"You know, nothing ever happened." I explain. "Looking back, I'm sure that Mr. Douglas didn't want to have to explain why he let us nearly burn down the school, so all he did was yell at us."

I pause for a moment, relecting on that long-ago memory. "He never finished the term. He left on a medical leave of absence about a month later. I guess we were too much for him."

Simon eyes me warily. "Somehow, Sandburg, I find that ominous."

Part Forty

"Okay, Simon, you're next," I prod him, grinning. "C'mon, tell us a story."

Simon looks at me sourly. "A story. Sandburg, most of the things I've seen in my career would inspire nightmares, not sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams are not the goal here. Entertainment is." I sit forward, with my best wheedling expression on my face. "How 'bout funny family stories? Dumb things that your son has done, anything."

He appears to consider for a few minutes. "Okay. Here's something that I remember from when I was a kid. It's one of those bits that comes up at family events. Daryl always thinks it's funny.

"When I was a little kid, my parents had both a regular dining table, where we ate on Sundays and when there was company, as well as a built-in restaurant-style booth in the kitchen that was for everyday. Dad sat on a chair at the end, and Mom was usually too busy in the kitchen to sit down much at all. We kids were crammed into the booth, with the youngest ones squashed up against the wall where we couldn't get up and mill around. I spent a lot of time crammed in there, waiting patiently for everyone else to finish eating. The table was just formica, but Mom always kept it as smooth as glass.

"I remember sitting in there one night when I was about six years old, eating hamburgers and French fries, when my oldest brother asked for the ketchup. For some reason instead of handing it to him, I gave it a good push, and it skated down the table. We'd already taken the top off of the bottle earlier in the meal, and no one had bothered to put it back on.

"This was a brand-new bottle, and it was one of those Heinz Keg-o-Ketchup bottles, very big and heavy. I remember sitting there, horrified, watching the whole thing as if in slow motion. When the bottle got to the end of the table, it didn't just fall over and spill like I expected. No, I swear: it seemed to hang there for a second, like--"

"Like Wile E. Coyote when he runs off the edge off the cliff?" I supply, helpfully.

Simon looks at me with mock severity. "Did I interrupt your story, Sandburg? But yes, that's what it did. Then it fell, straight to the floor, landing squarely on its bottom. A second later, this fountain of ketchup comes out, and sprays all the way up to the ceiling." He pauses. "A tomato-flavored Old Faithful. It was one of the most impressive sights of my childhood."

"And then what?" I prompt. It's hard for me to even imagine Simon as a child, let alone the perpetrator of condiment crimes of this nature.

"Oh, my brothers and sisters almost fell out of the booth laughing. Dad jumped up and slipped in ketchup and landed on his butt. My mom just sat there on one of the kitchen stools, laughing so hard she was crying. My dad kept looking at her reproachfully...but who can blame her? It really was funny.

"I had to clean it up, of course...all except the ceiling, which I couldn't reach even on the stepladder, so Dad had to deal with that. Our kitchen ceiling was always slightly pink after that, until Mom finally got fed up with it and painted it over."

Jim snickers. "Never thought of you as a sneaky little kid, Simon." He stands up and stretches.

"All right," he says."It's my turn, but I warn you...this one is disgusting. Much worse that a ketchup geyser." He returns to his seat on the couch, and leans forward intently. "This is a me-as-a-little-kid story, but much younger than you were, Simon. I must have been somewhere between a year and a half and two years old."

He pauses, and gets an odd expression on his face. "You know, my dad used to tell this story when he wanted to embarrass me, to make me feel bad. He used to tell it to my friends who came over, not that I had many of those...especially if he thought I was getting to be too much of a smart-ass."

"Jim, if it's got bad memories associated with it, you don't have to tell it," I say quietly to him. "This is supposed to be a way to pass the time, not a way to humiliate you."

He shakes his head. "It's not the story itself, just the way that Dad used to tell it. I think telling it to you guys will be good for me...good to hear someone laugh with me, instead of at me.

"I don't remember this happening, of course; I was way too young. Young enough to still sleep in a crib, and young enough to...well, you'll see.

"According to my father, he and my mother were sitting out in the livingroom late one evening. They had company over; I'm not sure who. Probably some business-related associates, since Dad has never had a lot of friends. I was in my room, in the crib, and was supposed to be asleep.

"Suddenly, out in the livingroom, all of the adults stopped talking at once. You know how that happens sometimes in a conversation? One of those awkward moments, when everyone looks at each other, which nothing to say?

"Only it wasn't completely silent. All four of them could hear me, in my room...talking to myself, repeating the same phrase over and over. 'Oooh, bad boy, Jimmy. Oooh, bad boy, Jimmy.'" Jim somehow manages to give his voice a little-kid sound to it.

"I guess the guests must have thought it was pretty funny, and according to Dad one of them said, "Oh, how cute! He's talking to himself? What do you think he's talking about?"

"They all sat out there and listened to me for a few minutes, and I kept repeating it. 'Oooh, bad boy, Jimmy. Bad boy.'

"Finally, they couldn't stand it anymore, and everyone trooped into my bedroom to see what cute little Jimmy was up to in there. They opened the door, and took a few steps, and didn't get much further before the smell hit them and they realized what I had been talking about.

"I was sitting up in the crib, with this sweet innocent look on my little toddler face, absolutely covered in --"

"Oh, no," I start to laugh helplessly, as does Simon. "You weren't. You didn't."

" -- baby shit," Jim finishes solemnly. "Yes, Chief, it's all too true."

"Man, Jim, your dad must have had an absolute cow." I'm almost choking here. I can see this, in my imagination's eye. The adoring guests, eager to view the Ellison scion; the authoritarian father looking like an idiot; the beatifically smiling child, covered in the unthinkable and unmentionable.

Jim shakes his head ruefully. "Yeah, and so did his guests. It's hard to be sure, as the tale seemed to get worse every time I heard it. Dad claims that I had smeared it not only all over myself, but all over the crib and the wall right next to me as ell." He smiles. "I bet those folks never came back over to our house, though."

Simon recovers first, while I'm still hyperventilating and rolling on the floor. "You know, Jim, that's a funny story...but it's sad that your dad used it the way he did. He could have told it without being so cruel." He grins at Jim, his eyes glinting. "It's not my turn yet, but that reminds me of something Daryl did once."

"Uh, oh," I laugh. "Go ahead, Simon. I hope it's not as gross as Jim's story, though."

"It's not," he reassures us. "It's related, but kind of cute. Daryl finds it embarrassing, but he's at that age where I embarrass him just by being around.

"When Daryl was about three, and his mother and I were still married, there was one summer day when we were invited to go swimming at a friend's house. We didn't know these people all that well, but somehow we got invited along with a lot of others for a barbeque and swim party. Daryl loved the water, and I spent most of the day splashing around in the pool together while Joan talked to our friends.

"Inevitably, the moment came when he paddled up to me in his little water wings and said, 'Daddy, I have to pee.'

"Well, I had a choice. I could haul him out of the water and hustle him inside, with both of us dripping all over our hosts' beautiful hardwood floors...or I could be practical about this. I decided to be practical.

"I looked around and made sure that everyone else was busy and not listening. Then I leaned close to him and whispered, 'Just do it in the pool, Daryl.' He looks at me like I've gone nuts, so I repeat, 'It's okay. Everyone does it.'"

Jim snickers. "Remind me not to go swimming with you, Simon."

Simon leans back on the couch. "The next thing I know, he's standing on the edge of the pool - - we were down in the shallow end, anyway, by the steps - - and he drops his trunks and just stands there peeing a perfect arc into the pool. And worse, he announces it by saying, 'Like this, Daddy?'"

I whoop with laughter. "I bet you guys didn't get invited back!"

"Not until Daryl was a few years older, no." He stretches and looks at his watch. "Well, I think it's your shift for a while, Sandburg. I'm going to crash out for a while."

I look at the clock. Hey, it's almost midnight. Only thirty hours to go.

"G'night, Simon. Get some rest." Jim waves to him as Simon climbs up the stairs.

Jim and I both sit there for a few moments, then I move closer to him on the couch. "Hey. How are you feeling?"

He sighs and rubs his face. "I've been better. I'm starting to feel...I don't know, sort of disembodied. Drunk, almost."

"Yeah...you're slurring your words a little, and I bet your reaction time is lousy."

Jim shakes his head. "I don't get it, Chief. I've been awake for long periods before, down in Peru, and I don't remember feeling this punchy."

"Yeah, but you were in danger much of that time. I would bet that the adrenaline made the difference," I suggest. "Of course, we could always find someone to come in here and shoot at you, if you think it'd help."

He snorts, and bonks me lightly on the head. "No, I think I'll pass on that." He looks at me intently for a moment, then speaks again more softly. "Hey, Chief. I've got one more story for you."

I yawn, in spite of my best efforts to not show any signs of weariness. "Save it for tomorrow, when Simon can hear it too."

"No...this one's just for you." He looks away for a moment, and I can read a tiny bit of self-consciousness through the fog of his sleep deprivation. "It's, umm, sort of allegorical. A fairy tale, I guess."

Yes, going without sleep for this long has definitely played games with Jim's inhibitions. Ellison the tough detective does not go around making up fairy tales. Maybe I should enjoy this while it lasts.

When he starts to speak again, his voice is so low that I have to lean close to hear him clearly.

"Once there was a mighty warrior, who was admired by many. He was strong, and he was fast, and the people of his village both loved him for the way he chased their enemies away...and feared him for the core of ice that they could feel at his soul, for he was without warmth or love.

"One day, without his consent or even his knowledge, a gift was given to him....a gift, or a curse. He was granted the ability to perform feats of hearing, of sight, such as no one else had ever been able to perform before. When he discovered this, he raged at the heavens and tried to reject the gift.

"As if in answer to the warrior's plea, a young teacher arrived to help the warrior with his abilities. At first, the warrior tried to reject the offered help; then, he tried to accept the instruction without letting the teacher into his life.

"But bit by bit, the young teacher became more and more indispensable to the warrior. He helped him to channel his abilities and his strength, and found ways to make the warrior a more effective fighter. Over and over, the teacher proved his worth, sometimes in situations of great danger...although he himself was a peaceful man.

"Gradually, the warrior became aware..." Jim trails off, and I can hear his voice thickening with emotion. "He became aware that the teacher had become his dearest friend and his blood brother. And when he realized that, the core of ice inside of him melted away forever."

I sit on the couch, facing Jim, my head bowed to hide the tears on my face. After a few minutes of silence, I feel his hand on my shoulder. "You okay, Chief?" he asks gently. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually so..." he trails off.

"Sappy?" I whisper, drawing my hand across my eyes, then raising my face to look at him. I smile through the residual glitter of tears in my eyes. "Jim, that was beautiful. Thank you. You're a poet, man, and I never knew." My smile becomes a mischievous grin. "If you're going to be this nice to me, we might have to extend the experiment just a little longer than I had planned."

He smiles back, and even through his weariness I can sense that he's pleased. "Sorry, Chief, but come Monday morning at six a.m. I'm hitting that bed, and not even you will be able to stop me."

Part Forty-One

After Jim's heartbreakingly touching admissions, I need to withdraw just a little to regain my composure. "Hey, Jim, we could use some caffeine," I say lightly, rising and walking to the kitchen. "It'll be a long night. Do you want tea or coffee?"

He clears his throat, but his voice still sounds husky and soft. "Either one is fine, Chief. Tea sounds more soothing for a change, actually. My throat's a little raw from all of this talking." He smiles ruefully. "By the end of this weekend, I think I'll probably either lose my mind or my voice. Or both."

"Well, you lost your mind when you let me move in, so that only leaves your voice," I tease. I fill the kettle and flick on the burner, then fish a seldom-used teapot out of the cupboard and fill it with hot water to pre-warm. I poke around on the shelf that holds the tea, and come up with a box of Twining's Blackcurrant flavored tea. Maybe Jim will enjoy the round and fruity taste, even without his enhanced sense of taste.

While waiting for the water to boil, I trot to the bathroom and collect a couple of ibuprofen from the bottle. I know Jim well enough to guess that he probably has a headache, considering the way he's sitting there on the couch rubbing his temples. I take him the pills and a glass of water.

"Here." I hand him the pills, then the water. "You know you need them, Jim. Tea'll be ready in a few minutes."

He smiles at me weakly. "No herbal concoctions, Sandburg? You're slipping." But he takes the medicine without further protest, and just then the teakettle whistles for attention. I pour the boiling water over the teabags in the warm pot, then return to the couch while it brews.

Jim's eyes are closed, and I poke him. "Hey. None of that. No sleeping, or I'll have to tickle you."

His eyes fly open. "Sorry. This is getting to be harder than I thought." He rubs his face. "Just for a second, I was starting to dream...something about flying. I guess it'll have to wait."

"The tea will help." My words sound lame to me, limp and ineffective.

He nods without much enthusiasm. I fetch the teapot and mugs along with milk and sugar and bring the whole works out to the coffee table so that we can reach it easily. As we sit there sipping the warming beverage, I reach into my reserve of experiences and begin, slowly, to talk to Jim.

It's funny: I always complain, at least to myself, that I rarely get Jim to hold still long enough to listen to my anthropology stories. I know it's become a running joke between us: that no matter how tense or unpredictable the situation, I can usually come up with some wild tale about the sexual proclivities of the natives of Madagascar or something.

Sometimes, those anecdotes are even true. Well, mostly.

Now, with a truly captive audience who seems pathetically eager for any distraction, I find how difficult it truly can be to keep up an entertaining onologue. I draw upon interesting items that I've read, experiences that I've had, and events related to me by friends and teachers. I pour every ounce of enthusiasm that I can find into storytelling, watching Jim's face for those tiny flickers of interest that show that I've hit a good topic. I pace around the room, trying to hold his attention.

When my voice grows hoarse and faltering, we play games.

Jim's concentration is by now too poor for anything as complex as poker, so we resort to simple children's card games like War and Go Fish. Even these prove difficult for him as the night wears toward morning. For variety, we switch to word games like Hangman.

"Jim, man, they'll never let you on 'Wheel Of Fortune'," I tease gently, after I "hang" him for the fifth consecutive time. "I'm even giving your stick figure all the fingers and toes."

Jim leers at my grotesque stick figure and snickers. "You could always give him a --"

"Don't go there," I say firmly. "I'm not drawing any obscene pictures that could be used against me later."

He stares again at the admittedly rather long phrase I've chosen, with its empty dashes indicating unguessed letters. "I give up, Chief. My brain is pure tapioca about now."

With a flourish, I reach over with the pen and add in the missing letters.

"It's about friendship," reads the completed phrase.

* * * * * *

At about 4:00 a.m., I drag Jim out for a walk in the cool night air hoping that will wake him up a bit. I leave a note for Simon, so he won't worry. Together, we stroll through the darkened streets at a slow pace, studying our sleeping city.

Under other circumstances, Jim's behavior would be hilariously funny. He has to stop and look at everything; I have to keep poking him to get him moving. The flowers in the planters, the street trees, discarded bits of paper, our blurry reflections in the shop window...everything fascinates him. It's like taking a walk with a little kid, or someone who's extremely intoxicated.

Studying his slightly weaving gait from a few feet away, I get a brief case of the giggles.

"Hey, Jim, I hope we don't run into any cops who wonder what we're doing out here at this time of night. I mean, I can just see them giving you a field sobriety test." And potentially embarrassing for Jim later, even after explanations were given.

He laughs as well. "It would be enter...ender...entertainin'...watching them try to figure out what I'm on."

I reach for his elbow. "We'd better get back. C'mon, Jim, we've got time for a good rousing round of Mad Libs before Simon wakes up." I look at him critically. "And a cold shower for you. That'll fix you."

Part Forty-One

We return to the loft and a spend a couple more hours on silly games. Jim seem partially revived by his walk; rather than being depressed and groggy he now seems more like a cheerful drunk. He finds the childish Mad Libs humor outrageously funny, and I have to keep shushing him up 'cause he's starting to get loud.

I'm not surprised to see a frowning Simon descend the stairs by about 6:30.

"Sandburg, do you two have to be so noisy?"

I flash an apologetic look at him. "Sorry. I've, um, tried to keep it quiet, but Jim's having a hard time remembering to keep his voice down."

Simon now looks at his best detective, who's sitting on the floor with a pencil stuck up each nostril and, well, giggling. Hey, they're Jim's pencils, right? Who am I to stop him?

"I'm going to catch a shower, Blair, and then I'll take over for you." He casts another unbelieving glance at Jim, and shakes his head. "I think we'd better just have breakfast here this morning."

"I think you're right," I agree, fervently.

We finish up the game with a flourish of inappropriate adjectives, then Simon emerges from the shower. He makes shooing motions at me.

"Go catch some sleep, Sandburg. You look almost as bad as he does," he comments, motioning to Jim.

I retreat to the cocooning quiet of my little room and fall into a profound sleep.

* * * * * *

Simon wakes me after about six hours, and together we struggle to get Jim through the last day of his sleep deprivation. It has become a grim task, and none of us is having any fun anymore.

Jim alternates between being coherent and being incoherent, between laughter and tears. His higher judgement seems to have fled except for brief periods of exhausted lucidity, during which he spends most of his time apologizing.

"'M so sorry, guys," he mumbles. "Sorry 'm not makin' much sense. Wha'd ya say, again?"

It's extremely painful to watch, and to hear. I have to keep consciously reminding myself that everything we're observing can be considered predictable effects of the sleep deprivation. This is not Jim, not the Jim that I know. He'll be himself again, after we finally let him sleep.

I can't help but wonder if we're doing the right thing here.

It's a strange feeling, to be essentially in charge of the situation. Simon continues to defer to me about Jim's care, and Jim is out of the picture at this point as far as decisions are concerned. I know, without asking Simon, that the sleep deprivation experiment will cease when I give the signal. With every hour that passes, it becomes harder for me to keep from calling it quits on Jim's behalf.

As the day wears on, Jim begins to develop a certain amount of paranoia and a growing anxiety about my whereabouts. At one point I walk down to the corner store, leaving Simon alone with him for about fifteen minutes. By the time I return, Jim is shouting hysterically at Simon, demanding to know what he's done with me. It takes me a good half hour for me to reassure him, and the experience leaves both Simon and myself considerably shaken.

Simon goes upstairs in the early evening to sleep for a couple of hours, but there'll be no further rest for me. Not only will Jim not allow me out of his sight for longer than it takes me to visit the bathroom; but my conscience will no longer let me seek the solace of sleep when I must deny its relief to Jim.

We're finally reducing to physically prodding Jim every time he starts to nod. Every couple of hours, we toss him into a cold shower, and we continue to fill him with coffee. He no longer remembers the reason behind the continued torture, and pleads with us pathetically to let him sleep.

At about 2:00 a.m., we hit one of his quiet and cooperative stretches. Simon manages to find some late-night cable cartoons on television, the only kind of program that still holds Jim's attention. I slump next to Jim on the couch, trying to reassure him by my presence...when he leans over to me and begins to gently shift my head onto his lap.

I look up at him, startled, but I'm so worn out that I don't protest. His eyes meet mine, and once again I see rational thought behind those blue orbs.

"Chief, you should be resting," he murmurs, slurring his words only slightly. "Res' for a while. Simon'll keep me awake, Jus' stay here."

I close my eyes and enter a half-doze, dimly aware of the sound of the cartoons and of Jim's hand on my head.

* * * * * *

I sit up with a start. To my relief, Jim's still awake, staring vacantly at the television. Unless he's sleeping with his eyes open, which I wouldn't eliminate from the realm of possiblities at this point.

"Sandburg," says Simon softly. "It's about four. You think we're close enough, here? He seems like he's almost in a trance."

I rub my face, trying to get the grit out of my eyes. "Simon, you should have woken me up."

"We've been doing okay. But he's hardly moved."

Even though Simon's just told me what time it is, I look at the clock anyway. "Just a little longer, Simon. Why don't you stretch out for a while."

He nods, and leans back where he sits, closing his eyes.

I shift back to the middle of the couch. "Hey, Jim. How are you doing?"

He turns his head toward me slowly. "Chief. Glad to see you." He frowns. "Can you help me?"

"Help you with what, Jim? What do you need?" I ask softly.

"I just can't remember," he complains, rubbing his face. "I can't remember how to wake up." Then his eyes narrow as he looks at me suspiciously.

"But if you're here, in my dream...that means you don't know either, Blair. We'll just have to do it the hard way."

Part Forty-Three

Jim's words, combined with the stupefied and lost expression on his face, cause a little chill of horror to snake down my spine.

"What do you mean, Jim? We're not dreaming. We're awake. You're just a little confused because you're so tired. It's okay."

He pulls himself to his feet, shaking his head frantically. "No. We have to wake ourselves up, Chief, or we'll never get out." He heads for the doors to the balcony.

"You want some fresh air? That might help, Jim. Come on." I open the doors, and propel him out onto the balcony.

"There," I say to him, patting him on the back. "Take some deep breaths of that nice cool air. That'll make you feel better."

He looks at me incredulously. "No, Chief. Don't you understand? There's only one way that always works."

"Works for what, Jim?" I ask him, slowly.

"To wake up from a bad dream." He moves away from me, staring out at the pre-dawn city...then faster than I would have thought possible, he's scrambling to the top of the brick-wall railing.

"You have to fall," he says calmly.

"Jim!" I scream, not caring who I might wake up at this hour. "Jim!" I repeat, willing myself to stay calm. "You have to get down from there." Oh my God...he's so groggy and uncoordinated, one wrong move and he'll just be a blot on the sidewalk. I mentally curse my sodden reflexes, my carelessness, that somehow let this happen.

To my relief, he at least sits down on the wall. I move up behind him, then stop. My first impulse is to wrap my arms around him from behind and pull him back into the balcony. But even sleep-deprived, he's still damned strong. We might both go over the edge if I try that.

Just then, the doors to the loft fly open and Simon tears through, looking wild-eyed. "Sandburg, what's going...Oh, my God. Jim, get down from there. Now. Before you fall."

Jim giggles. "But I want to fall, Simon. Then I'll get to wake up." He wobbles a bit. "Whoa!" he laughs.

Okay, okay...think, think, dammit, think!! I cudgel my brain, trying to get it to respond faster. "Jim, you have to come down. Uh...you can't fall from there. It won't work." Quick, quick, quick...what cockeyed explanation can I possibly come up with that will convince him while he's in this state? "You, uh, need to come back inside, and try it from the stairs. You can get higher that way, and you'll have more time to wake up on the way down."

"Huh." Jim appears to consider this. "Tha' sounds like a good idea, Chief. You comin' with me?"

I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat. "Yeah, sure, Jim. I'm coming with you."

"Okay." He turns and swings his legs back around so that he's facing us, lurching dangerously as he does so. I put out an arm to steady him, and he climbs down.

"Simon comin' too?"

Simon clears his throat. "I'm right here, Jim. Come on." I see a faint glint of metal in his hands, and suddenly I know what he holds in them.

Handcuffs.

"Great. This'll be fun." Jim staggers back inside, and almost gets away from us again. But as he rounds the couch, Simon catches up to him and slips the cuffs on him. I move in as well, standing in front of him...waiting for the eruption of fury.

But it never comes. Instead, Jim looks at me sorrowfully, with tears springing to his eyes.

"You tricked me, Chief. Now we'll never get to wake up." He starts to cry, the sobs sounding brittle and harsh in his throat.

"Yes, we will," I half-whisper, hesitantly putting an around his back. "But first, we have to go to sleep, Jim." His eyes meet mine for an instant, then he closes them again and nods. "Sleep," he whispers, choking off the tears.

Together, Simon and I assist him up the stairs to his bedroom, while he mutters and protests in phrases that I can't quite understand. We lower him to the bed, as gently as we can.

Simon eyes the cuffs. "What do you think?" he says softly.

"Get them off of him," I reply. "I think he's already asleep anyway. I'll stay with him."

It only takes Simon about five seconds to remove the cuffs, then we roll Jim onto his back and cover him loosely. He's already a dead weight.

"I'll crash out on the couch downstairs for a while, Blair. Just to be on the safe side." He gives Jim one final, awkward pat then heads silently downstairs.

Moving like an old man, I climb slowly onto the bed next to my sleeping Sentinel. Jim's going to be a little weirded out to wake up and find me here, but I'm not taking any more chances with his safety. I crawl into the bed next to him and move close to his warmth.

My eyes blurry with fatigue, I gaze at his face for a while. I guess I'm waiting to be sure he's in a deep sleep before I let myself drift off. Maybe, though, I just need a good look at this man...his life now doubly precious to me, since I came so close to failing him up there on the balcony. My fault, that little scene: for pushing this whole thing past the point when we should have quit, and for becoming careless.

Stubble-faced, tear-stained, and snoring, with blue-gray marks under his eyes, he looks like...well, like a man who's been forced to stay awake for three days, and who's lived through his worst waking nightmares. Yet I swear I can already see some peace beginning to steal back into his features as he relaxes into slumber.

I have no concrete proof that we've succeeded in our objectives, that we've cured Jim of his seizures. No proof, but the strongest feeling of well-being diffuses through my body. It's a feeling I recognize: the satisfaction that comes with the completion of a difficult task. By some inner instinct, I have surety that it's over.

Today, we'll sleep. Maybe Wednesday we'll go to see Dr. Philpott, and start convincing the DMV and the powers-that-be that Jim is cured.

But tomorrow, dammit, I'm taking him fishing.

Finis.

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