It’s quiet for longer than is comfortable in the small room, kinda like in my Dad’s old Monty Python movies when they take way too long to make the next joke or move the dialog or plot forward, and it’s all funny, yep, but no one is laughing right now.

Maybe they're waiting for me. I say, “So, I can see luck?”

Ochoa snorts. “Weirder if your brain had gone with taste or touch, but yeah, that’s our best guess.” She looks at Tyler who gives a slight nod.

“And it’ll look like I can do magic,” I say. “But I can’t.”

“Oh, it’s magic alright,” says Torelli. “And you're doing it, it’s just not yours.”

Everything Torelli says always confuses me. I try not to get irritated. Instead, I frown and exaggerate a shrug.

Ochoa smiles as she chews her gum. “He means that the magic was done to you. It’s kind of like Lansky stabbed you and left the knife embedded in your chest. Now you have a new knife that you can do knifey things with, but only if you can figure out how to use it without hurting yourself further. Now, is the knife yours? Maybe. Maybe not. Then Beardy gave you another knife. Technically, you can do more than before, but the power comes from the knives, not you.”

“I have no idea what that means,” I say.

Smythe says, “She’s talking about sponsors.”

“Right,” I say. “What are those?”

“Magic is real here,” says Smythe. “Practitioners get access to it through runes. You remember you told us that Lansky and the Beard both drew something in the air above your head, right? That was a rune. Sponsors are like batteries for magic. Practitioners, wizards, witches, whatever you call them tap into a sponsor’s power to affect the world around them. Someone draws the rune but the sponsor powers the magic.”

"Okay," I say. "You still didn't tell me what a sponsor is."

"No one really knows," says Tyler. "There are lots of theories but the relevant part here is that, no, they don't turn off a rune. Ever."

“Can we, I dunno, erase the rune?” I ask.

“If it had been drawn on you physically, maybe,” says Tyler. “But this was an air-drawn rune. Those don’t go away.”

Ochoa’s smile broadens. “Look at it this way, practitioners give away a good bit of their energy when they take a sponsor. You get to use somebody else’s magic without paying any of the usual costs.”

“Great,” I say. “Except for the whole curse thing. Twice.”

There’s another lull in the conversation. I mean, I guess we're having a talk now rather than an interrogation. I like this a lot better but now I don’t know what to say or ask. I don't know enough about this stuff even to ask questions about it. I’m so tired. I want to call my Mom and Dad or one of my brothers, but they’re gone. I’m all alone.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Mr. Walker?” says Tyler.

I look up at her. She looms over me like the Colossus of Rhodes in a business suit.

“According to the FBI you are a victim in all this,” she tells me. “I know it must be overwhelming. You’ve got a phone now. Agent Ochoa and I will go to the bank tomorrow. I have a feeling that since you foiled that robbery they’ll be willing to cooperate and expedite matters. We’ll get you a couple of bank accounts — checking and savings. We have the twenty thousand dollar ticket from the clerk and there's no reason for you not to have the money. We’ll get that deposited for you. If you want you can give us the other ticket and we’ll take care of that too but your phone can download the state lottery app. I imagine the bank may choose to reward you as well. They do that sometimes. And the convenience store company will probably offer you a settlement. Your money issues, at least, are no longer an emergency for you.”

“I’m grateful for all this,” I say. “But shouldn’t I do that myself? Go to the bank?”

“No,” says a deep voice from the hall. The door opens and a tall man in a pale uniform stands there. He’s whip-thin, in his late fifties, and grimacing. “You can’t.”

I get a sinking feeling.

“Why not, Sheriff?” asks Smythe.

“Because I’m having Rigby here,” says the sheriff, and Officer Rigby steps into view to wave his hand at us. He looks embarrassed. "Drop Mr. Walker over the county line in a little while.”

“But—,” says Smythe.

“How many crime scenes has he been in for the past twenty-four hours?” asks the sheriff. “How many dead? And the sprinkler system?”

“The Hatcher case,” says Smythe. “A bank robbery and family kidnapping foiled.”

“The Hatcher case?” asks the Sheriff.

“I got a lead,” says Smythe. “Because he pushed.”

“Can you say for sure he gave you that lead?” says the sheriff. “Can you say for sure he didn’t cause the kidnappings or the robberies with these curses of his?”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Nobody said anything.

The sheriff sighs and says, “He’s walking chaos. He goes. Soon as you’re done here. There are no charges, Mr. Walker. Willamette thanks you for your help, but you’re too dangerous to keep around. No hard feelings, but you’ve got to scoot.” And then the man walks away.

Rigby gnaws his lower lip. He says, “Laura and I live out by the county line anyway. Be glad to take you. There’s a motel not too far from there. Least I can do.”

“Thanks,” I say.

"Well, shit," Ochoa says, “Hardly seems fair.”

“He’s not wrong,” says Torelli.

Everybody looks at him.

“Well, he isn’t,” says the dapper detective. “Look kid, you’re brand new at this stuff. Yeah, you can control it, but how well? This is a very controlled environment.” He swirls a finger over his head. “Everything in this place is built to house dangerous people in every circumstance. It's monitored and carefully arranged. The place is staffed by well-trained professionals who are community-minded and do their best to keep their moral compasses fine-tuned. What might it be like for you on Main Street at noon? Downtown during happy hour?” Torelli shakes his head. “It’s a damn shame, but I see his point.”

“I do too,” I say.

Everybody looks at me.

I nod at Torelli. “What if I hurt somebody or cause somebody to get hurt? I can’t do that. No, I'll cooperate and do as the sheriff wants. No problem. I'll... figure this all out.”

After that, we iron out a few details and I answer a few more follow-up questions but soon things break up. One by one we stand, getting ready to go.

Ochoa stops me as I move to leave. She says, “Why’d you do it?”

“Sorry?” I say.

“Follow the lady in the sweater from the bar,” says Ochoa. “You don’t know her. It had nothing to do with you.”

“It has everything to do with me,” I say. “If I was the type of guy who lets women be abducted from bars, then women are at least one guy less safe, right? My mom’s a woman. If I ever get a girlfriend, well, she’ll be a woman too. I wouldn’t get to pick who the kidnappers pick next so, yeah, that could affect me directly. If everybody’s less safe then everybody’s less safe. I don’t see why that’s confusing or surprising.”

She lowers her sunglasses for a split second to peer over them at me and I get just an impression of large, luminous eyes. Then the mirrors are back up in place and I’m left to wonder if what I saw there was all an illusion. “Making it a point to tell me you’re single, eh?” says Ochoa. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Walker?”

“What? No!” I say a little too quickly. I feel my face warm.

“Well, why not?” she’s frowning at me. “Don’t like law enforcement types? Typical. I’ll remember this, Mr. Walker.”

“No! What? I—,” but I should stop talking.

Ochoa grins and I realize she’s, what, teasing me? Playing around? Picking on me?

She turns away and sways out of the interrogation room.

Rigby is there in the hall, scratching his nose to hide a smile. “I think she likes you,” he says.

I'm baffled. “She’s out of her mind then,” I say.

Twice cursed. It doesn’t exactly cry out for domesticity, does it? Fucked once more.

Rigby says, “Come on, I’ve got another sandwich waiting for you in the car. They didn’t feed you, did they? And It’s dinner time! The monsters!”

When we get out back to the rear parking lot, I’m surprised to find Laura Rigby putting a car seat in the back of her husband’s prowler.

I look at Rigby.

He shrugs. “It’ll be crowded with you all in the back. Want to ride up front?” he says.

“Am I allowed?”

Rigby shrugs. “It’s not normal, but I’m off the clock and you’re not under arrest or anything so why not?”

Laura straightens and smooths her cardigan. She smiles at me. “Arthur won’t let me or Beth out of his sight for more than five minutes right now,” she says with a sigh. “And after today, I’m in the mood to humor him.”

I smile. I don’t blame her at all.

I’ve never been in a police car. There’s the radio and the laptop on the end of that arm thing that folds out so the cop can type on it. Rigby’s got a shotgun in a holder there between the seats. I think I’ve seen that before but only in the movies.

Rigby sees me staring at it. “Oh crap, I forgot.” He glances back at his wife, then back at me. “When the call came in about the bank robbery I was doing a traffic stop. I grabbed it out from the trunk before I got moving,” he says. “There’s a spot for it there. It’s safe and secure. I’ll put it back later, just don’t fool around with it, okay?”

I nod.

I’m feeling a bit awkward. I’m not normally very talkative. I’m a bit shy, honestly. Well, okay, when I’m supposed to talk to people I’m fine, like if I’m interviewing them for a story, and I think I did okay in the interrogation, but this? I don't want to impose, you know? I’m not sure where I fit in with the Rigbys. I know they’re trying to be nice and help me out in return for what I did in the bank, and they seem like super nice people, I’m just not sure what to say.

Laura does. "So," she says. “Arthur tells me you’re not from here?”

Rigby says, “Laura, c’mon.”

“Oh, cut it out,” says his wife. “He didn’t mean to tell me your business, Mr. Walker. I pestered him fair and square. You'll find that everybody knows about extra-dimensional travel. It's in a lot of our stories. Movies and things? I've never actually met somebody who'd done it though.”

I say, “I hope you’ll call me Ben.”

“I’m Laura and this is Arthur, but only I call him that. Most call him Art, especially after New Year’s two years ago,” she says and there's a twinkle in her eye.

Art sighs. “Goddammit,” he says under his breath as he shakes his head and offers me a rueful smile.

I know I’m supposed to ask so I do. “What happened two years ago at New Year’s?”

Laura giggles and says, “We were at a party and Torelli got drunk. He’s waving this margarita around and gets everybody’s attention. I thought he was going to make a toast or something but instead, he called us a bunch of uncultured swine. He'd been asking people who Hieronymus Bosch was. You know, the painter? Smythe was the only one there who knew. I guess there’s a detective series, books, and TV. Somebody brought it up. Anyway, Torelli said," and here Laura arranges her face into a perfectly placid imitation of Torelli’s. “'It’s very important,’ he said. ‘To expose yourself to Art.’ And then he turned around and dropped trou, mooning Arthur right there in front of everybody in the Mexican restaurant!” She laughs.

"Torelli did that?" I ask.

Art nods. “They’re still doing it too,” he says.

“What? Mooning you?” I say.

“Yep. Smythe got me this morning.”

Laura gasps, scandalized. “She did not!”

Art laughs. “You're right. She did not.”

"You're awful," his wife tells him but she's grinning.

Rigby makes a left and we’re on the two-lane state route out of town. One minute we’re passing gas stations and fast food places. The next we’re in the woods. Good old Northeastern Ohio is like that.

We sit for a moment or two in quiet before everybody’s phone goes off.

I feel sick. Everybody knows that sound. It’s an Amber Alert. I guess that have those here in this dimension too.

I read the description. I always do. I say it out loud because Rigby's driving. "A maroon four-door sedan, American-made, older model. License plate begins with an H. Home invasion. Suspect is to be considered armed and dangerous."

Laura says, “You mean like that car there?”

I look where she's pointing and three cars in front of us, traveling in the right lane, is a maroon Impala from the late nineties. The license starts with an H.

Figures.