When I show Myra my phone she starts tapping quickly. “Yep,” she says. “This is really odd. We should have no difficulty challenging things at the bank. I mean, some of these numbers…. We might be able to get it all back as early as tomorrow. Maybe.”

“What happened?” asks her husband.

“Completely drained and overdrafted,” says Myra. “In weird increments. Something’s very wrong about this.” She looks up at me. “Do you mind if I print this out?”

“Go ahead,” I say.

Alex looks troubled.

“What is it?” I ask.

“If it was anybody but you, Mr. Walker,” says Alex. “I’d wonder if this was related to the bank robbery or the FBI was doing something hinky with your assets or something. Probably not with either of the kidnappings.” He gives his head a shake. “Wow. But since it is you, it could be anything. As your lawyer—.”

“Are you my lawyer?”

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t pay you.”

“Ah,” says Alex. “There is that. Well, with your permission we’ll take the retainer out of your account when it becomes available. You could write us a check? Did they give you checks?”

I shake my head.

“Well, pro bono until then,” says Alex.

“Is that okay?” I say.

“It’s done all the time,” says Alex. “I’ll draw up the paperwork.” He moves toward his desk.

“Would it be better if I paid something?”

“Maybe, but like I said —.”

“You got a couch?” I ask.

I find eighty-six cents between the cushions in the green sofa in their break room with the two ladies and the cucumber water. For that, I get both my lawyer and a CPA looking into stuff for me.

“I just bought that last week,” says Alex, staring at his couch.

Myra says, “Maybe people sat on it in the showroom?”

“Maybe,” says Alex. He smiles. “Let’s get you situated though, Mr. Walker.”

“I wish you’d call me Ben.”

“Only if I’m Alex,” says Alex. “And that’s Myra.”

Myra gives a little wave above the printouts of my bank account.

“That’s a deal. What do you mean situated?”

“Well, for starters,” says Alex. “No more talking to law enforcement without me there.”

“Oh! I’ve been meaning to ask, what kind of lawyer are you? I mean, what kind of law do you practice?”

“I’m a general practitioner,” says Alex. “I assure you it’s a thing. Our idea was to land a few clients and get paid to manage their affairs whatever they might be.”

“Ah.” It was exactly what I needed, I think.

“I don’t think you’re in any trouble since you’re out and walking around,” says Alex. “But you’re at least a person of interest in multiple cases. When you talk to them, sometimes law enforcement hears you get one aspect of your story wrong or they see the tiniest of inconsistencies and they get suspicious and confirmation bias is a thing. They're only human. Best to keep contact to a minimum and whatever contact there is should go through me, okay? I can call them and let them know I’m representing you.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Now, you need a place to stay that won’t burn down or explode if you have a nightmare, as well as food, clothing, and whatnot. Fixing the bank account will help with some of that. I don’t suppose you want to go win with another lottery ticket?” says Alex.

“My track record there is not so great.”

“Say no more. The credit history the government gave you should be able to land you a credit card or two. Maybe by this evening. We can handle that for you. Heck, maybe at one remove your luck with money will fare a bit better.” He looks over at Myra.

She recognizes her cue but doesn’t look up from my records. “Two to start,” she says. “Maybe three or four soon, depending. We should also spread your money around a bit. We need to take into account, so to speak, your unique nature and count on bank error, bank closure, natural disasters, and so on.”

“Where should he sleep, do you think? That abandoned hotel out by the highway? I know the owner. He—.”

“In a property that isn’t being maintained and in a dubious state of repair? A high-end hotel would probably leave less to chance,” says Myra.

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

“But there’s lots of people,” says Alex. “We need a nice place that’s up to code with few people.” He snaps his fingers. “An Airbnb.”

Myra nods and is immediately reabsorbed into my finances. Somehow. I mean, there’s only two days’ worth and that’s including today. It's, like, two pages long. And she's probably using a large font.

Alex says, “I know just the place. You going to have Stacy take you there?” He starts typing on his computer.

I shake my head. “She should stay with Candace, I think.”

Alex frowns and nods his head. “Fucking, Craig.”

I lean in. “I think you need to talk to your sister too, Alex,” I say. “A lot.”

His frown deepens and he nods. “Yeah, okay, Uber it is.”

I’m not at all disappointed when the driver drops me off at a little house in a cul-de-sac in an older neighborhood on the outskirts of WIllamette without once rolling the little Mazda over once or being abducted by aliens.

It’s exactly what I need. A little cottage built long enough ago that anything major that was going to go wrong with it probably would’ve happened by now, and kept in good enough repair that nothing was likely to go wrong with it now. The street is quiet with hardly any traffic. When I go inside, I find it furnished but just barely. A couch and easy chair in the living room. A table and two chairs in the eating area just off the kitchen. A queen-sized bed with two end tables. I go through the house checking everything, unplugging anything I don’t need right away, like the television and the microwave and the washer and dryer. There's a rug in the living room and I roll it up. By the time I’m done the dark and light spots in my vision are almost invisible and, aside from a twitch here and there, motionless.

It’s early in the afternoon which has always been a kind of low-energy time of day for me so, tempting fate, I take a nap in the big bed. Fully clothed, of course, just in case I’ve got to run out of there, but I surprise myself by managing to relax and drift off to sleep.

An hour and a half later I’m awakened by the buzzing of my phone. I pick it up and see that Myra has been texting me.

The first message says, “What do you make of these dollar amounts? $10010.00.”

Then, in a new bubble, “$1100.101.”

“$1101.10.”

And then finally, “$1.11???”

I text back and say, “What’s with that second one? Is that a typo?”

“Hardly,” comes the instant reply. “That’s the figure and it shouldn’t be possible, according to the bank. Anything else strike you as odd?”

I look at them again. “They’re all 1s and 0s.”

The three little dots appear, letting me know she’s replying.

But then I type, “Holy shit! It is binary?”

The dots disappear and reappear. Then, “Very good! It took me a bit, but it’s what convinced the bank that something was off. Alex got on the phone and the good news is that your money’s all back. We took out our retainers, 1k each, and we’re sending you a pizza. Pepperoni ok?”

“Awesome!” I type. “Thank you! Pepperoni’s fine! Very thoughtful of you. Did you figure out what it said?”

“Now, Ben, I don’t want you getting ideas.”

“What did it say?”

“I had to extrapolate it to this sequence: 01001000 01100101 01101100 01110000.”

“And?”

My phone rings. It’s Alex.

I answer and say, “Hi Alex, I was just texting Myra.”

“I know,” he says. “Ben, the message spells out the word, ‘Help.’ We’ve notified the police, of course, but—.”

“Help?” I say. “That’s it?”

“Ben, I want you to stay in that nice place we rented for you and eat your pizza. Myra and I have an idea that—.”

But I’m looking at my bank records on the app. “It looks like somebody took me back up from a dollar eleven to forty-one dollars and then more numbers to three, four… six decimal places, then over drafted me eighty-one dollars and six more. What the fuck?”

“Ben, that pizza’s really good,” says Alex. “Myra and I get it once a week. You’ll love it. Best when it’s hot.”

You know that feeling you get when you know you’re just about to figure something out? That excited tickle in your brain and belly? Maybe you don’t. That’s how it feels for me. Anyway, I was getting that when I felt something cold and dark spreading somewhere far off to my left. West? A bit south?

Something was wrong and going wrong fast.

I got it. “Alex, those are coordinates, right? Latitude and longitude?” I say.

I hear Alex mutter something about smart clients. “Yeah, Ben, they are. I advise you to stay clear. The police have been notified. I bet they’re getting a warrant right now.”

“Right now?” I say. “You sure? Won’t the cops need more than that? I feel it getting bad right now.”

“You feel it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s happened once before. I think once I become aware of a problem and pay attention to it I can do that maybe? I dunno. I’m still new at this.”

Alex sighs. “It’s hard to tell how long it’ll take them, Ben. This is the same bank that was robbed the other day?”

“Yep.”

“That might speed things up. Maybe tomorrow?”

“Maybe?”

“Best guestimate.”

Somebody went to a lot of trouble to call for help and rob me at the same time. My account was drained in a matter of moments, with seven or eight transactions done within moments. Nobody was going to miss that.

“Good pizza, Ben,” says Alex. “Honest.”

“Do we know where the money went?” I ask.

“Some account in Jamaica,” says Alex. “The one in New York. We think it might be a shell. It’s a business account made to look like a personal one, but that’s as far as we can go with it.”

“I’m going,” I say.

“Ben, think about this. You’re going God knows where against God knows who, alone, unarmed, un—.”

“That’s a good point.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant. I—.”

“I’m going.” I go into the kitchen and start opening drawers.

“As your lawyer, I can’t advise—.”

“I’ll, what is it? Observe and report. I’m not planning to do anything illegal or crazy.”

“You must have a broader definition of ‘crazy.’”

I hear Myra’s voice in the background.

Alex doesn’t bother to mute the phone. “He says he’s going."

She says something else I can't catch.

"Yes, I told him about the pizza,” says Alex.

“I’ll call you or the cops if I see anything, okay?” I say and then I hang up.

All I can find in the kitchen are three serrated steak knives and a pretty hefty meat tenderizer but I’ve got nowhere to put them. All I’ve got in the world is my white t-shirt, jeans, a belt, my wallet, my pointless keys, a pair of socks, my sneakers, and the envelope Agent Tyler gave me. I want to take the knives but I’d have to hold them in my hand. I could tuck the meat tenderizer in my belt but decide against it. I leave them all behind on the kitchen counter. I'll figure something else out.

I open the door to leave the house and find the pizza guy on the doorstep about to knock.

“Oh!” I say. “How much do I owe you?”

He’s a few years younger than me. Long brown hair under a Guardian’s ball cap. Glasses. He says, “It’s paid for.”

He slips the pie out of its warmer and hands it to me.

“They tip?” I ask.

“Yep. Thanks!”

I say, “You wouldn’t want to give me a ride, would you?”

“Sorry, man,” says the guy. “I’ve got other deliveries.” He opens his car door, sits, and says, “And I ain’t a Uber.”

I wave.

He backs his car into the cul-de-sac, turns, and leaves.

I look at the box. I open it. It does look good. Smells wonderful.

Fuck it. I’ll take it with me.

I walk down the street, eating a slice, my thumb ready to go.