When Tyler comes back with Ochoa in tow, I tell them, “I want to help."

Tyler puts a hand on my shoulder. “You are helping,” she said. “A lot. You helped a family escape what was probably going to be a mass human sacrifice, stopped a bank robbery, and foiled a kidnapping. Ben, you’ve got things to contend with now that few people will understand. You should take some time to… get a handle on it. Learn to use it rather than have it use you.”

“Something’s going on in Willamette,” I say. “Something you're investigating. Something that got me cursed, twice. It's put people in danger and I can do something about it. I want to do more. Help you figure it out and stop whoever needs stopped.”

“We have to do things a certain way, Ben. It all has to hold up in court. What investigative training have you had?” says Tyler. She’s being gentle. “With your abilities, it might be easy for you to find something but it has to be found the right way so we can use it in court. And what if these people are dangerous? Have you taken some kind of self-defense classes? What weapons instruction?” She gestures at Ochoa and herself. “We’ve been through Quantico. The FBI trains its people well. Maybe if you—.”

“The FBI does hire consultants,” says Ochoa. “He might make a good one.”

Tyler looks at her for a beat too long. “Maybe,” she says.

“He took down four armed bank robbers with a library card,” says Ochoa.

I can see the man falling, his gun going off, killing his friend. The red ruin of MAC’s throat. The—.

“Yeah, and that was just yesterday,” says Tyler. “Look at him. Has he processed that yet? If you had shot those men, where would you be right now?”

“In a shrink’s office and waiting for review before I could return to the field,” says Ochoa. She turns to me. “Ben, she’s right. You need some time.”

“I tell you what,” says Tyler. “A consultant is a good idea, if you agree, Ben. I can start the paperwork. It’ll take some time and the department will want to evaluate you. They might even let me handle that. In the meantime, you should really talk to somebody. I’ll write down a list of some people we’ve used before in similar situations, okay?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Wait. You could evaluate me?”

“I do those sometimes. I’m a licensed psychologist,” says Tyler.

Ochoa winks at me. She says, “Tyler wanted to go to Behavioral Science to chase serial killers but we lucked out instead.”

“Ah,” I say.

“In the meantime, why don’t you go get changed,” says Tyler. “That room right there is open for the moment. We’ll take you someplace to get some rest and start up that paperwork. What do you say?”

I say, “What can you tell me about what’s going on?”

Tyler doesn’t bat an eye. “The FBI cannot comment on ongoing investigations,” she says. “I’m sure you understand.”

I understand alright. I get my things and take them into the other room. I get dressed. I pat all my pockets to make sure I’ve got everything. Wallet, keys to nothing and nowhere, the envelope Agent Tyler gave me. Everything I have in the world.

I go to the door and push my luck.

I turn the knob and step out.

There’s a commotion down the hall. The clatter of a plate and a metal lid or something. I don’t look. I don’t look for the agents, worried that they’ll feel my eyes on them and see me. I go for the stairwell.

I do catch Whately’s eye as I pass. He smiles and gives me a little wave. I wonder how long it’ll take him to tell Tyler and Ochoa where I’ve gone. I shrug, wave back, and I’m through the door.

I go down a floor and then exit the stairs. I walk clear to the other side of the building and go up two floors to catch an elevator back down to the third floor, trying to confuse the trail.

I don’t really know what I’m doing but I figure any amount of chaos I can add to things only helps me.

I don’t know what I should do or how I should proceed with my investigation either, if that's what this is. Normally, I’d call a friend or Mom or Dad.

I’m all alone.

I find a tiny waiting area by the ICU. I sit down for a moment and pull out my phone to stare at it.

The sum total of human knowledge is accessible through this little device, but you're just as likely to stumble into the depths of our stupidity and ignorance too. Tyler is right. I need to talk to somebody, but everybody I know in this universe is in law enforcement and would be duty-bound to turn me over to the FBI who won’t let me help. Helping will keep my mind occupied. If I’m not able to do that, I’ll have to start dealing with being alone in a new universe, with everything and everyone I’ve ever known gone, that I’m cursed and what that might mean, and the fact that I’ve killed people, as bad as they were. I know I’ll have to deal with it all sooner or later, right? But it’s a lot all at once. I figure avoiding all that is understandable. I mean, who’d blame me? Sooner or later I’ll have to deal with it, but maybe I could space it all out a little? One or two at a time? The only way to manage that is to stay busy and here I have become involved in a real-life mystery. Ben Walker and The Case of What the Fuck is Going On seems a lot more doable right now.

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Only I don’t know what to do next.

I don’t even know if I’m in trouble for ditching the FBI who are probably looking for me right now, not to mention that the county sheriff is also pissed at me. I don’t have the first clue what’s going on in Willamette either. I haven’t so much as checked the news on my phone.

I need advice.

I shrug and resolve to do three things I hate.

One, talk on the phone. Why do that? Text me, bro. If I text somebody, they can choose when to handle it. Now might not be a good time.

Two, I hate bothering people, especially strangers. Especially out of the blue. I have a tremendous aversion to being seen as creepy.

Three, asking for help. I don't consider myself a toxic male and I don't think not wanting to is tied to that at all. I think all three things are about not wanting to impose on others. I don't want to be seen as a bother, you know?

I sigh and feel a little sick to my stomach but I dial the three-three-zero area code, then a bunch of random numbers. and push.

On the third ring, I hear someone with a shaky voice answer, “Hello?”

“Hi!” I say with as much sunshine in my voice as I can stand. “I got your number from a friend. Sorry to bother you. You don’t know me. Uh, I need some advice.”

“From me?” the woman sounds surprised. “I don’t understand. Who is this?” At first, due to the quavering in her voice, I thought I was talking to an old lady, but I’m revising that as I listen to her. She doesn’t sound old. She sounds distressed.

“My name is Ben,” I say. “You don’t know me. A friend gave me your name. I was talking to her in line at the grocery store about some problems I’m having and she mentioned your name and said I should give you a call. I’m wondering if you can help me.”

“I don’t see how,” says the woman. “What kind of help do you need?”

A very good question.

“Um, maybe some legal advice?” I say. “Oh, or financial?”

There’s a pause, then, “My brother’s a lawyer. He shares an office with his wife who’s a CPA.”

“That’s perfect!” I say. “Do you think they could see me today?” I’m getting the feeling there’s something really wrong here. The woman’s responses are lifeless, in a near monotone. “Oh! Maybe I could pick you up and you could direct me to them? Introduce me? I could buy you lunch! Have you eaten?”

“No, I—. Who is this?”

“My name is Ben,” I say. “Ben Walker. You don’t know me, but some people got me in some trouble and I need some help. Will you help me…. Dammit, I forget what she told me your name was.”

“Candace,” she says. “Not ever Candy. Candace.”

“Can you help me, Candace? Give me your address and I’ll come and get you. I’ll take you to lunch if you like, anywhere you want to go, and then you can introduce me to your brother and his wife.”

“You know, why not?” To me, it sounds like she's accepting a dare. Like, she’s almost hoping I’m going to take her off somewhere to rape and murder her. What have I stumbled into this time?

She gives me her address and I’m so surprised it’s worked that it takes me until I’ve hit the street that I no longer have a car.

Yeah, okay. I got this.

I start walking backward and hang out my thumb.

I push a bit and it’s not long before a car pulls over to let me in and I get a little thrill. I’ve never hitchhiked before and wasn’t sure if it was still a thing.

The driver is a middle-aged woman, very stylish, with spiraling brown curls almost down to her waist. The cross strap of her seatbelt gets lost in her ample cleavage and I have to make an effort to look her in the eyes.

“Hello!” she says. “Where you headed?”

“I’m off to meet a friend,” I say. “My car died and I'm late.”

“Aw,” she says and leaves it at that.

I give her the address and then she pulls off into traffic as if we’re the only car on the road.

I double-check my seat belt.

“That’s not far,” she tells me, nodding at my phone and the GPS map slowly scrolling on it. “What? Five? Three minutes?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Says three, but it’d be a lot longer walking. Thank you so much for picking me up. I’m safe, I promise.” And just so I stay that way, I keep pushing so that things remain on the light side.

“Oh honey,” she says. “I waited tables in a bar all through college. I can take whatever you’ve got to dish out, but you seem like a nice young man. What are you? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Close,” she says and she smiles.

I’m glad she’s not worried. I'd hate it if she was.

“I’m Ben,” I say. “Ben Walker.”

“I’m Stacy,” she says. “Nostrum.” She gives me a big grin.

I get an odd feeling and sneak a peek at her left hand. No ring.

I wonder if I’m in trouble again.

“What do you do, Ben?”

“Freelance journalist.”

“You can make a living at that?”

“No, ma’am,” I say.

She laughs. “Hey, it’s okay. We all need help from time to time. I’m home sick from teaching middle school today. Not that I’m really sick,” she says. “I’m playing hooky because, well, sometimes you gotta or you’ll kill one of the bi-polar little shits you love so much, you know?”

“I was thirteen once,” I say. “I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, let alone in bulk.”

She laughs.

We’re in the residential area surrounding Willamette now. Big houses shoehorned in tight beside one another in a sprawling allotment. People with enough money either for a big house or a big yard but not both, I guess.

I realize that Candace might not be willing or comfortable driving me anywhere and, like an idiot, I implied that I’d be driving when I offered to pick her up. Inviting anybody to take me for a ride in their car to her brother’s office seems a bit much.

“Hey, Stacy?”

She looks at me.

“So long as you’re playing hooky from school,” I say. “You want to get some lunch with my friend and I? As a thank you? I know it’s weird, but I was supposed to come and get her and—.”

“I'm not sure!” she says. “I’ve nothing else to do. Oh, and here we are.” She pulls into the driveway of a resplendent brick house with a three-car garage and lots of tall, narrow windows. “You seem nice enough and I am hungry. Who's your friend?”

The front door opens and a woman steps out. She’s tiny, five-one, five-two, maybe forty-five or fifty years old, pretty with short blonde hair. Her eyes are sad. She’s clutching her purse like its the only thing keeping her alive.

Stacy gasps. She opens her door and stands. “Candace?”

Candace freezes, staring at Stacy. “Stacy Nostrum?” she says.

Stacy runs to Candace and hugs her. They seem like friends that haven’t seen each other in a long time. I can’t hear their conversation but I can see that Stacy’s managing most of both sides. The ebullient brunette seems so excited, and it’s not the fake polite kind you see among people of a certain age and tax bracket. It’s genuine and I find myself liking Stacy and worrying more about Candace.

It’s a little awkward. They’ve forgotten all about me and I’m tempted to exit the car and just leave. I did promise lunch though, and I have no idea why Candace agreed to help me. Looking back and how she spoke, and seeing her now so sad, that “Why not?” she gave me earlier seemed so determined. Something is wrong.

I open the door to wait in the corner between it and the frame, leaning into it at ease, smiling, patient. I want to remind them I’m here but show them that I’m in no rush and that I'm pleased a their reunion. You know, without seeming creepy.

Stacy sees me first and shakes her head. She says, “Oh, I forgot! Ben!” She turns to Candace. “How do you know Ben?”

“I really don’t,” says Candace.

“She really doesn’t,” I say. I hold up a finger. “But I can explain. Where do you want to go to lunch, ladies?”