It's a tense couple of hours. Ames can feel exhaustion behind his eyes, like the black and white fuzz of a television without rabbit ears, but there's no way he could sleep. He can't even sit down for longer than a minute or two, and then he's up again, pacing back and forth from the window to the stairs and back again. Camden sits quietly with his hands in his lap, staring off into space.

After about his twentieth check out the window, Ames turns to Camden. "You still don't remember anything?"

"I don't know," he says. He sighs very softly and it is as if everything goes out of him, his face smoothing into the blankness of defeat.

"You remembered poetry. Robert Frost."

"I keep seeing that boy. The way he looked when I—his mother killed him. Who am I?"

Ames sits next to Camden. "Who am I?" he says. "I'm not trying to be facetious, it's just…I know my name. I remember my childhood. But I'm not sure I know any more about what all of that means than you do."

"You make music," Camden says.

"Yeah. Not very well."

"All Nick knows how to do is kill."

Ames furrows his brow, says, "What do you mean?"

"He killed a lot of people, I think. He tries to forget. He drinks a lot. But sometimes it still comes out and he can't stop it."

"How do you know? How do you know about the boy in there?"

Camden shrugs, looking very much a boy himself. "I just know," he says, "is that bad?"

Ames' mouth is suddenly very dry and he licks his lips, tasting sweat or maybe just fear. "Do you have a cell phone, Camden?"

Camden looks confused, but before he can respond, Nick bursts through the door. He slams it behind him and turns the lock. His cheek is bruised and bleeding, but Ames can see a gun resting against his spine. "What happened?"

"We have a problem," he says, his eyes on Ames. "That—thing—has a cell. And how the fuck did he know what happened to that little boy?"

Ames looks at Camden and can suddenly see it clear as day, the rectangular object in his left front pocket. He jumps up and before he can say anything, Nick has pulled the gun and is pointing it at Camden's forehead. "Talk. Now," Nick says.

Camden seems unsurprised at this and looks past the gun pointing in his face to Nick's eyes, which are dark and cold. "You can't make me say things I don't know," Camden says.

"How did you know about Alex."

"I—" Camden looks away (Ames is amazed; he can't look at anything but the gun and it's not even pointed at him), blinking rapidly. "I—I can see in your head," he says. He looks from Nick to Ames, eyes wide with wonder. "You want to kill me and just, just have it over with. But you won't. You don't' want Ames to see that. You don't want him to be like you."

Nick steps closer, pressing the cold butt of the gun into Camden's forehead. Camden doesn't recoil the way he expects, just keeps looking at him. "Give me your phone." Camden pulls it out of his pocket and hands it to Nick, who hands it back to Ames. "Check the time on the last call."

"If the phones are doing this, do you really think it's a good idea? I mean—"

"Do it," Nick says in a voice Ames hardly recognizes, which is enough to make him flip open the phone (a cheap one, probably doesn't even have a camera). It takes him a moment to find the right combination of buttons to access the call list.

"Two fifty-seven," he says. "Call lasted two minutes and fifty-eight seconds."

"Which means he was hanging up just as this happened. Just as the phones made everyone go crazy."

"But I'm not crazy," Camden says. He tilts his head at Nick and smiles a bit. "There aren't any bullets in that gun, are there?"

"Motherfucker," Nick says, and stuffs the gun back into his pants.

"I can help you," Camden says. "Because the crazy people are out right now. I can feel them."

"You know exactly where they are?" Ames asks. "Do they know about you?"

Camden rubs the spot on his head where the gun was. "How could they? They don't think."