Archive of Our Own ^beta

Author's webpage: http://users.apo.nmsu.edu/~mcmillan/stories.html

THE GOLDEN LETTER
by Russet McMillan

Jim,

I don't know if you remember much of what happened last night. If you do, I'm betting it's all garbled up with a bunch of things that *didn't* happen. And even if you can remember every detail of what went down, I'm sure you couldn't guess what was going through my head at the time. So I'm just writing this to let you know everything's okay. At least, it's okay at my end -- you'll have to decide how you feel about it.

When you went to your knees in that parking lot, I just about freaked. You've always seemed like this perfect monolith to me, the unmovable object -- I mean, I sure have enough trouble moving you to do anything. And suddenly there you were heading off into Golden hell. I know about that kind of hell; I've seen more than a few acid trips. (Yes, Jim, one or two from the inside, but that was years ago.) And I know a trip that's unplanned and involuntary is more likely to turn into something really ugly. -O-n-c-e-- -I--g-o-t--d-r-u-

So I knew this was going to be bad, and at first I was going to rush you to a hospital. But then I thought, how are they gonna help? Probably tie you down and sedate you and put you where no one can hear you screaming. And would any doctor even believe you were that affected by just a tiny little bit of Golden on your fingers?

Oh, shit! I just now realized -- you were rubbing your face right after you got that stuff on your hand. You must have been under the influence already, because you'd never do something that dumb ordinarily. Hell, maybe you were doomed as soon as you picked up that stupid packet. But I bet getting it in your nose and eyes made it a hundred times worse. And I didn't even notice you were doing it, or try to stop you or anything. I'm sorry, Jim.

Anyway -- at the time, I was thinking about hospitals and how they might think it was you, instead of the drug. Or you might let slip something about your Sentinel abilities, and I know how much you hate the idea of anyone finding out about that. And what do those doctors know about treating a Sentinel, anyway? I helped you a hell of a lot more than conventional medicine when you had that head cold, and when you got winged by Angie Ferris' bullet. So I figured, forget the hospital -- I can deal with this myself. I hope that wasn't the wrong decision. I hope when you wake up, you'll understand where I was coming from when I decided to just bring you home.

But there were all these people starting to head our way, ready to help. Any minute, one of them was going to call an ambulance, or maybe those drug guys would notice the crowd growing and come check it out. So I waved everyone away and got you to your feet and hustled you back to the truck. You weren't resisting me or totally limp or anything -- you just seemed distracted by whatever you saw when you stared at the lights. I sort of propped you up against the truck so I could fish the keys out of your pocket, and you giggled when I got my hand in there. I could feel something else through your pocket, something a lot warmer than keys. I suppose I might as well admit that there have been times over the past year and a half when I dreamed about getting my hands in your pants. But I swear, I pulled away as fast as I could and undraped you from over my shoulders. All I was thinking about was getting out of that place.

I got you in the passenger seat and buckled you in, but by the time I went around to the driver's side, you had already unfastened the seat belt and you were trying to get out. When I tried to explain that you had to keep it fastened, you either couldn't hear me or you weren't paying attention.

The drive home got kind of hairy. You kept undoing your seat belt. At first it was kind of innocent, like you were a little kid or something; you kept wanting to lean forward to get a better view of the city lights through the windshield. Then it changed. You sort of winced and said, "God that's bright." Then you looked over at me and yelled and whapped me in the side of the head. I almost steered into the oncoming lanes.

You kept thumping at my hair and my shoulder, saying I was on fire. I pulled over and explained about a million times that I was fine, there was no fire -- but you kept trying to climb out of the truck. The only thing that stopped you was my seatbelt, because you were trying to drag me along with you.

Then I had the brilliant idea of making you close your eyes, and you started to calm down. I kept telling you there was nothing to worry about, and the scary things you saw weren't really there. I made you listen and smell, and you didn't hear any flames or feel any heat. I was thanking every deity I could think of that Golden is mostly just a visual hallucinogen. But you would keep peeping your eyes open and seeing something. You would gasp and grab me, and I'd have to talk you down all over again.

Finally I got you settled in the back seat. I thought that would be safe, because the Expedition has driver's control of the back door locks. (Never thought I'd be glad you got a family vehicle!) I told you to keep your eyes closed, and I talked to you for the whole rest of the trip, telling you there was just a little further to go and that sort of thing. You wanted to hold my hand, so I drove left-handed, with my other arm twisted back between the seats. Not exactly the old ten-and-two driving position, but I figured it was safer than letting you freak out.

So we got home, and you seemed to calm down as soon as we got in the front door. You were keeping your eyes closed on your own by that time; it seemed like the light really hurt your eyes. But just the smell or the ambience of home, or something, made you feel better right away. I got you settled on the couch. You winced when I turned on the lights, even with your eyes tight shut. So I ran upstairs and found that sleep mask you use when you work the night shift. I also found some other stuff you keep by the bed, so if your drawer is all out of order, that's why.

It was okay at first. You were slow about answering questions, but you seemed to know what was going on. But your eyes were getting more and more sensitive, even with that mask over your face. I tried to talk you through some relaxation and control exercises, but obviously your concentration was not at its best. Finally I had to turn all the lights off. So I was sitting right next to you on the couch, trying to see you through the dark, waiting to find out how bad it would get.

You started to hear things. With your ears, I couldn't be sure if they were real things or not. You would ask me if I heard a siren, and I didn't, but I bet there was one within your range. Then you smelled smoke, and I started to get worried. I couldn't be sure there wasn't a dumpster fire or some overdone toast somewhere within half a mile, but I was detecting a theme here. That case with the warehouse fires a couple weeks ago got pretty ugly. I know I still have dreams about seeing that building go up in flames with you inside. If you were going to have a bad trip, it makes sense it would be about that.

Then you jumped to your feet and said, "Did you hear that?" It was the way you said it, so scared and urgent it made me want to twist my head around and find out what you were talking about.

I tried to stay calm. "No, what are you hearing?"

"That was a SAM." Then you sort of lurched and fell over. I had to grab you to keep you from hitting the coffee table. "We're hit! We're going down! Sarris -- Sarris --" You were trying to climb over the coffee table, reaching for something.

It took me a second to clue in. I was busy holding on to you, and I don't do much thinking about surface-to-air missiles in everyday life. But the name Sarris rang a bell, and I realized you were reliving the crash eight years ago. "Jim," I kept saying. "We're not in Peru. We're not in a helicopter. That's all over. We're safe at home in Cascade."

But you weren't listening to me. You went right on reliving the crash. You scared the hell out of me by acting unconscious for a couple of minutes after the chopper hit the ground. I was feeling for your pulse and thinking about hospitals all over again. Then you went through the whole thing of waking up and finding your men dead all around you. You thought I was one of them; I guess he was dying when you found him. You were trying to cradle me in your lap, telling me it would be okay, help would be there soon, and all the time tears were running down your face, seeping right out under the sleep mask.

Jim, I'm so sorry. I knew that crash was bad, but I had no idea. I guess no one could understand who hasn't lived through it, but last night I felt like I was right there with you. You never talk about it, and you're such a private person -- I know you wouldn't have wanted me to witness this. But there was no way I could leave you alone like that. I just tried to hold you while you were holding me, and I kept telling you it wasn't real.

After your last man -- the one you thought was me -- had died, you just sort of sat there for a while. I was glad for a break from the craziness, but I was worried because you were so miserable and so alone, even with me right there beside you. And I knew it might get even worse before the drug worked its way out of your system.

I sort of had to squirm out of your lap, and I tried to get your attention. But you weren't hearing me or feeling me when I touched you. You just sat there with your back to the couch and your face completely blank.

I thought it would be a good time to get you a glass of water. I know the more you drink, the sooner you piss away the drugs. So I went to the kitchen. I had to move slowly because of all the lights being off. By the time I got back to you, you seemed a little calmer. I held the glass up to your lips, and you sort of woke up a little. You covered my hand with yours while you drank. Then you tipped your face up at me and said a word I don't know. Something like "Engacha?"

And you curled your hand behind my neck and pulled me down and kissed me.

I didn't know what to do, so I just stayed there for a minute with the empty glass in one hand and the other braced against the couch, and I let you kiss me. I didn't know what you were hearing or feeling or tasting that made you think I was a good person to kiss. I didn't know how to persuade you to stop. So I just did nothing for a minute, until you sort of flipped me around so that my back was to the couch. Then I started trying to get away.

This is the part I'm afraid you'll remember. Okay, I'm afraid you'll remember the stuff that came later, too, but this is the part I think you might misinterpret. Because, yes, I was trying to push you away. And yes, you wouldn't let me and you sort of held me down and kept sticking your tongue in my mouth. But the point is, I wasn't that unhappy about it. Actually, I was starting to enjoy it, and that was what got me so worried. You're a good kisser, man, and even when you were tripping out you were working hard to make it good for me too. So parts of me were starting to sit up and take notice, so to speak, and I got nervous.

I guess you know that I've had a fairly wild sex life at times, Jim. What you don't know is that I used to date men as well as women. I stopped because of a bad experience -- actually, it was the same guy who taught me about the joys of unplanned acid trips. He was bad news, but I got rid of him. And it's not like I was permanently traumatized, or anything; I was just taking a step back to get my bearings again. But then I met you. And I know how sensitive your nose is. And I worried about what you would think. So for the past couple of years, when it comes to guys I've stuck to a lookbut -don't-touch policy.

And I've tried not to do it too much, but I admit you're one of the ones I've looked at. It's no news that you have a great body, man, and whenever I had a date with my right hand, you would sort of pop into my head as possible fantasy material. But I avoided that as much as I could, because it felt like I would be using you without your knowledge or consent. And our friendship is just way too important to risk on weird stuff like that. So I kept it platonic between us, but I was always aware of the possibilities.

So when you started kissing me, thinking I was this Engacha or whoever you thought you were with, I got scared. Not about the idea of sex with a man. I was scared about losing your friendship. I'm still scared, really; that's why I'm writing this letter. And that's why I was struggling at the time -- not because I was really averse to making out with you on the living room floor.

Then you found my neck, and I sort of melted. That spot right below the ears is a definite weak spot for me, and you went straight for it. I wonder if your senses had something to do with it -- can you sense your lovers' erogenous zones ordinarily? But anyway, that was the point where I stopped trying to be the sane, responsible party and started playing along.

Once I was cooperating with you, my shirt and your shirt disappeared pretty quickly. And I managed to move the whole dance up onto the couch, even though I hadn't been able to get you to budge an inch when I was resisting before. You went for my nipples, which is another hot spot for me -- they're very sensitive. That's why I finally decided against getting a nipple ring last year. (And I still don't know how you guessed that I was even considering it in the first place.)

So I was definitely enjoying myself, right up until you said, "God, Carolyn, I love your breasts." And I remembered we weren't exactly on the same page, no matter how well it seemed to be working out. Because I'm pretty flat there -- not even a whole lot in the way of pectoral bulges, like you have. And I'm hairy, too. And if you thought I was Carolyn, your perceptions were seriously divorced from reality. Which I already knew, and should have remembered no matter how much you slobbered on my neck.

So I started another round of pushing and squirming and trying to get away. And you kept grabbing me and pulling me back up the couch and saying weirdly appropriate things like "C'mon, baby, you know you want it."

And that's something else I want you to keep in mind. Because I did want it, and I am morally certain that no matter how messed up your sense of reality was, you knew that. I'm positive that if I had been truly scared or disgusted or turned off, you would have known that, and you would have let me go.

But since I really did want it, it didn't take long for you to persuade me to go along again. You just rubbed your hand against my crotch a little and started nibbling your way down my stomach, and all thought of resistance left my mind. When you opened my pants, I lifted my hips for you to pull them down. And when you kept licking down the last few inches of my stomach, I didn't try to stop you.

There was a second there when I was worried you were going to try to go down on me like a woman. That could get pretty weird. But either Carolyn is a lot better endowed than I think she is, or you had starting hallucinating I was someone else entirely. Or maybe a part of your brain knew what was going on better than the rest of you did -- whatever it was, you treated me just right.

Is there something you want to tell me, Jim? It doesn't matter who you thought I was at the time, it was pretty obvious that wasn't the first blow job you'd ever given. -Y-o-u'r-e--e-v-e-n--b-e-t-t-e-r--a-t--

Damn, this is more embarrassing to write than I thought it would be. Maybe in the morning you won't remember anything, and then I probably won't have the courage to show this to you. But I figure if you remember just part of it, I'll have to tell you the rest anyway. And it's probably easier to just write the whole thing down and get it over with.

I'm not just embarrassed, though -- I'm really ashamed that I took advantage of you like that. Knowing that you thought you were with someone else made me feel pretty guilty -- but it also made me hot. I was just lying there watching myself slide in and out of your mouth, and the mask over your eyes looked so sexy . . . and I just let it happen. I kept wondering, what was it like for you? Sort of blurry and intense, like a wet dream? Or was it more detailed and you were somewhere else entirely?

Anyway, you were really going at it, with lips and tongue and a very careful application of teeth. And your hand was doing something really interesting further down, too. And I was gone. There was just no way I could have stopped at that point, even if you'd come to your senses right that minute. I was holding your head to make sure you didn't pull away.

So I finished in your mouth, and you swallowed it all. Didn't even seem surprised at the taste. You sort of sat back on your heels, licking at your lips. And while I was lying there totally limp, you undid your pants. You came up and straddled my face.

You didn't force me. I was willing -- hell, I was glad to return the favor. We had obviously passed the point of no return in this relationship anyway, so there wasn't a whole lot of reason for me to object. And . . . well, I won't go into a whole lot of detail here, man, but I like you. I like your body, and from where I was lying I had a fantastic view right up the front of it. I liked the part of you I was seeing for the first time, and I liked the taste of you, and I really liked the noises you made when I got to work. So I was definitely a willing participant there.

When you finished, I sort of pushed you off me and started to get us straightened up on the couch. I tried to get you to talk to me, maybe tell me where you thought you were and what you thought was going on. But all I got out of you was "Tired, Dad, let me sleep."

And I was thinking that was a good idea. Let you lie down and sleep it off until the drugs were out of your system. I was even ready to get you settled down on the couch, with the afghan and a spare blanket to keep you from getting cold.

But then I started thinking about what would happen when you woke up. What you would think, and what you would remember. Maybe the whole night would be a blank, and you'd be pretty confused to be waking up naked on the couch with both our clothes flung all around. Or maybe you'd remember just a jumble of the stuff you hallucinated, like the fires and the crash in Peru. Maybe you'd remember a really vivid dream of sex with whoever you thought I was at the time.

Even if you actually did remember the truth, it wouldn't be very nice waking up to have your face rubbed in it -- literally, given your senses. So I knew I had to clean up. Not just the loft, but us. I tossed our clothes in the hamper and got you to drink another glass of water, and I hustled you into the bathroom.

You didn't like being dragged up off the nice warm couch. You kept trying to bargain with me. You called me Dad, and Sally, and Alan, and Carolyn. You even called me Chief once, but I'm not sure you were talking to me -- I have heard you call other people that a couple times.

You gave a little gasp when I turned on the bathroom light, so I flipped it off again. We were going to have to do this in the dark. I obviously couldn't just push you in there and tell you to take a shower on your own. Anyway, we were both already undressed, and I'd seen everything you had to offer (which is plenty, believe me!) So I fumbled around to turn on the shower, and we got in together.

It was really weird, almost surreal, showering in the dark with another person. I spend most of my showers with shampoo in my hair and my eyes closed anyway, so I know where all the soap and stuff is without looking -- but having you there changed everything. I was trying to keep you on your feet, lather you up, make sure that the sleep mask stayed dry, and all that stuff. In the process, I guess I neglected to keep your hands from wandering. Both of us wet and slippery, groping around in the dark -- it's hardly surprising that I started to get hard again.

And so did you; you were poking me in the belly practically every time I moved. And you had no inhibitions at all. You just grabbed me and slicked me up -- not with soap; I think it must have been some of my leave-in conditioner, because it was really slippery. Then you turned around and braced against the wall and said, "Do it, Alan. Put it in me."

Maybe it was the darkness, the way everything seemed sort of dreamlike even though I wasn't the one tripping. Maybe it was just that I was beginning to realize how much I'd wanted to be with you for so long, and this night was probably my only chance. For a minute I was tempted. Then my conscience kicked in, and I realized just what I was considering. It would be a total violation of our friendship. It didn't matter if it wasn't your first time, if you'd already done it years ago with some guy called Alan -- I wasn't going to risk hurting you that way.

But I was a little too slow to move away, and you pushed back against me. And it felt so damn good. And I thought, maybe if I just rubbed against you a little, that would be enough for me without totally betraying your trust. So I grabbed your hips and moved in close.

And it was great. Just that, all by itself, would have done it for me. You were pushing back and squeezing me with your butt muscles and saying sexy things to some guy I've never met, and I was loving it. But then you reached back and grabbed hold of me and centered me up against you . . . and I didn't even try to stop you. I have no real excuse. I knew what I was doing, and I knew it was a bad idea and might hurt you and get us both into a hell of a lot of trouble later . . . but I did it anyway. I just pushed right in.

I fucked you, Jim. You were not in control of your actions at the time, and I was. Sure, we both had a good time with it, at least physically -- but I know if you remember this part of it, you might never forgive me. I'll go with what you decide. If you want me to move out, I'm gone. If you want us to never talk about it, I'll pretend it didn't happen. But honestly, it did happen, and it was wonderful -- but I was wrong to do it, and I'm truly sorry.

When we were done, I got all conscience-stricken again. I had to rinse the wall where you splattered, and clean you off all over again, and you weren't cooperating a lot. I wanted to try to find out if I'd hurt you, but to do that I would have to turn the light on. When I asked if you were okay, you said "Oh yeah," but I probably should have found some way to make sure. If there was any blood on me, it got washed off by the shower before I could check.

I got you out and got you dried off and managed to convince you that you wanted to go to bed. At first you seemed to think bed was the toilet; then I got you out of the bathroom and you headed for the couch. I had a lot of trouble persuading you to go up the stairs, and then I had to find some boxers for you to put on, and a t-shirt, and get the covers turned down. As soon as you were all settled in, you drifted right off.

Then I came downstairs and started thinking about what happened. I'm still not sure what I could have done differently. I mean, I know I took advantage of you, and what I did in the shower especially was totally irresponsible. But if I had really fought you, if I had managed to push you away and make you stop, maybe the trip would have turned ugly again. At least you seemed to be having fun with what we did, and now you're sleeping peacefully. Maybe if we hadn't had sex, we would have ended up spending hours on the floor reliving every traumatic thing that's ever happened to you. Maybe right this minute I'd be barring the door against you, trying to keep you inside while you tried to escape some imaginary fire.

I guess I have to leave it up to you, man. I've told you everything that happened as plainly as I could. I'll put this letter on the kitchen table so you find it first thing in the morning.

I'm just glad you're going to be okay. That's all that matters, really. It's been one hell of a night as far as I'm concerned -- and it wasn't all bad. I'll remember this night for years to come. Whatever you think we should do, I'll abide by your decision.

Blair.

Jim retrieved the salt and pepper from the table and put them on the back of the kitchen counter where they belonged. Frowning, he looked around for something else to clean up. Sandburg had been pretty scrupulous about keeping the loft clean over the past week, but he just couldn't see the kinds of things Sentinel eyes picked up.

Of course, right now, Jim couldn't see at the Sentinel level either. His vision was starting to get pretty clear in the center, and he could focus with only a little effort -- although if he tried to read or watch TV for more than fifteen minutes, he would get a headache. But the real problem was his peripheral vision, or complete lack of it. The edges of his sight were still filled with streaks of gold light. He had to look straight at something if he wanted to see it. And he hadn't even tried zooming in close on anything yet -- he suspected that would really give him a headache.

But it was a definite improvement over the past week, and he was getting better with each passing day. Soon enough, his sight would be back to normal again. Maybe about the time Sandburg was back on his feet.

The phone rang, and Jim stepped easily over to the coffee table to pick it up. He could see well enough to get around, anyway, and the rest of his senses told him everything else he needed to know.

"Ellison," he said into the phone.

"Jim. It's me. We're still at the hospital."

"Hey, Simon. Let me guess -- there's some kind of delay."

"Of course. Have you ever known anyone to get out of the hospital without being delayed?"

Jim shrugged. "No, can't say as I have." Then he frowned, as his nose caught a whiff of something out of place.

"We're just waiting for the doctor to get around to us and give Sandburg a last checkup so we can get signed out."

"How's he doing?" Jim asked, bending and sniffing at the couch.

"Impatient. You know Sandburg. He wants to be out of here yesterday."

Jim nodded distractedly. "He was still pretty much out of it when I saw him this morning." He pried up the couch cushions, but found nothing there.

"Yeah, he's bobbing and weaving a little, but he still wants to go home. You sure you're going to be able to deal with him, Jim? He's a handful, and you're still under par yourself."

"We'll be fine, Simon. I could have picked him up myself, you know -- you didn't have to do this for us." Jim tipped the couch back a little and looked underneath.

"Jim." One of Simon's false, irritated smiles fairly beamed through the phone lines. "Consider it a favor from me to you. I'm keeping your car from being driven by the guy who totaled my car."

Jim coughed uncomfortably and sat down, distracted from his search. "Yeah. Okay, Simon, why don't you just keep the Expedition for another couple of days?"

"No, I'll drop it off with Sandburg and take a cab. Tomorrow I'll get a vehicle out of the motor pool. I'm just glad no one realized you were blind last week, or there's no way I'd persuade insurance to cover it. But listen, Jim -- no driving for at least another few days. I'm serious. If you or Sandburg need something, call me. Jim? Are you listening to me?"

"I hear you, sir. You're probably right -- my peripheral vision is still pretty narrow."

"Still got that tunnel effect?"

"It's widening out now. Getting better every day."

Simon sighed gustily over the phone. "Jim, are you sure you want to deal with Sandburg like this? He can be trouble at the best of times, and right now he's all cranky like a sick little kid. If we tell the hospital there's no one who can watch him, they'll keep him another couple of days."

"Simon, I'm sure. You don't know what Blair had to put up with from me this past week, between the case and me being afraid I might never get my sight back. But he was there for me, every step of the way -- even when the bullets started flying. And I'm going to be there for him. There's no way I'm leaving him in the hospital. He hates it there."

"All right. It's your funeral. Oh, here comes the doctor now. I'll call you when we hit the road, give you a little warning, okay?"

"Okay, Simon, thanks." Jim hung up the phone bemusedly. Simon really *didn't* have any idea of what a rock Sandburg had been for the last few days. But Jim couldn't tell him the whole story, because if the captain found out how many dangerous situations Sandburg got into with Jim, he'd probably revoke those observer's credentials. It was because of his association with the department that Blair had gotten overdosed in the first place. Jim was determined to try to make it up to his partner, at least a little.

And the truth was, Sandburg wasn't so hard to get along with, most days. Jim had definitely developed a soft spot for the younger man. It wasn't the first time he'd felt like this, and he knew where it would end up if he really let himself go; those protective feelings would turn more and more personal, edging towards the sexual.

But Jim had no intention of letting it get that far. He'd managed in the past to control similar urges towards some of his Army buddies. Once or twice he had indulged his feelings, and had some good times in the process -- but it always ended up in an ugly tangle. He wouldn't be taking any chances of that happening with Sandburg. Protectiveness was as far as he was going to go, at least where anyone could see. He had held Blair close in that parking garage, conscious of the scent of his hair and every precious beat of his heart, and he had known that he could never afford to get that close in everyday life.

Blair was a complete Lothario, far too immersed in his short-lived relationships with women to consider his big, male partner in a romantic light. And that suited Jim just fine. He'd settle for dating women close to Blair, indulging in illicit fantasies when Blair was out of the loft, and the occasional wet dream. That was enough for him -- far better than taking stupid risks with a friendship that had kept him going when he feared he might be blinded for life.

Jim remembered waking up that first day, after their night at the drag strip. He had only the fuzziest memories of the things he had hallucinated under the influence of the Golden; some nasty, and some sexy. But Blair had apparently kept him together, gotten him home and put him safely to bed. And when Jim had pushed off his sleep mask in the morning to find that his vision was nothing but a series of indistinct gold flashes, Blair was upstairs in seconds to help him. Blair had found a discreet doctor, Blair had driven him to the appointment, Blair had abided by his wishes to keep the whole thing a secret -- Blair had helped him survive each moment of that frightening week. Now Blair needed Jim's help, and he was going to get it without having any sense of sexual obligation pushed upon him.

Shaking his head sharply to clear it of those inappropriate thoughts, Jim gave up on his search for the source of that elusive scent near the couch. He needed to do something about Blair's bedroom. The grad student had a habit of piling books up on his bed until there was barely room for a child to sleep, much less a grown man. Jim would do his best not to mess up the mysterious Sandburg filing system, but he had to make sure the room was at least habitable for a convalescent. Clean sheets would probably help, as well.

As he was stretching across the bed to collect three more tomes that had washed up against the wall, Jim's foot contacted something under the bed. Paper crackled beneath his shoe. Bending down, he retrieved several balled-up pages that had apparently tumbled out of Sandburg's tiny, overfull trash can.

He was about to stuff the crumpled papers back in the can and carry the whole thing out to the kitchen to be emptied, when his own name caught his eye. Puzzled, Jim flattened the first page out and took a look, just to see what it was.

Jim,

I don't know if you remember much of what happened last night . . .