Chapter Three

The late James Gordon, husband, father and Gotham police commissioner for more years than many could believe, had had a ~way~ about him during times of crisis. It wasn't a "frenetic" way or a "delusional" way or a "disinterested" way - it was just a ~way~ -- a manner, a state of being he was able to slip into that seemed to quell the fears of those around him. He seemed to be able to communicate to his personnel and his fellow Gothamites that no matter what the danger or catastrophe or problem, no matter how daunting or hopeless or frightening it seemed, good ~would~ win out. The perpetrators would be ferreted out, and justice would prevail. Some said it was easy for Jim Gordon to remain so at ease - after all, he had the Batman and his team of costumed crusaders virtually at his beck and call.

Others knew better: Gordon had been a career cop. He'd risen through the ranks, been on both sides of the line, and knew the destructive properties of panic. Like a plague, it spread quickly and utterly, infecting and corrupting whatever stood in its path, leaving devastation, ruin and fear in its wake, prompting chaos. A leader - a good one - knew that in times of trouble, he or she would be in the spotlight and would set the tone for those he led.

For, if the person at the top gave into the terror, then so would those beneath him. It was the trickle-down effect at its worst. So the thing to do, of course, was to project calm. Appear to be at ease with the situation. Speak reassuringly. In a place like Gotham, where things went very wrong very often, Jim Gordon had perfected the projecting of calm even when he didn't entirely feel it himself. And though it wasn't a failsafe measure, it seemed to work fairly well for him. It helped that he'd been a personable and well-known figure. Gothamites, for the most part, liked him and believed in him, but what really sold it was that indefinable "way" he'd had about him. From the ramrod-straight posture to the flicker of hope in his clear blue eyes, one could see his belief that whatever had gone wrong ~that~ time would soon be righted. They took comfort in that, and they put their faith in it and him. And very, very rarely were they ever disappointed.

Barbara Gordon liked to think she, too, had a "way" about her, inherited, along with some of her other better qualities, from her father. Goodness knew Gotham had its share of catastrophes during her tenure as police commissioner, and she had not always had the luxury of a Batman to swing in and act as a partner. But until recently, though, she'd not wanted one. But so much had changed since the time during which Jim Gordon sat in the commissioner's chair and her own time. She glanced over at the framed picture of her beloved, long-dead father. The lined face and authoritative expression stared out at her reassuringly, his smile slight and his eyes serene. Calm.

Calm. She had real need of ~that~. The city was in a shambles; more and more people being attacked by their subconscious - half her people and her husband chief among them. Casualties were mounting, and no one knew what to do or what not to do.

Check that. ~Some~ people knew exactly what ~not~ to do. Some just had that gift. And, as bad luck would have it, those very people also seemed to be the ones in power . . . the ones in prominent-enough positions to come into her office unannounced and take up her time.

Three such people sat in a semicircle around her, all wearing displeased expressions. Devon Landry, a tall, swarthy man with a perpetual smirk, sat directly opposite her, alternately glancing out the plate-glass windows and clearing his throat. Beside him sat his client, Tyrone McAllister, owner and CEO of Gotham Meat Packing Inc. At least ~he~ had the decency to look embarrassed. Though the climate control in the room made it comfortably warm on that fall day, beads of sweat rolled down his lean face, dropping on and staining his silk tie. Sitting beside McAllister was the most uncomfortable-looking of Gordon's visitors: Cecil Danvers, mayor of Gotham City. He kept his eyes fixed hard on Gordon, almost as if he were trying to control her words by sheer force of will.

A fourth visitor stood nearby, not actually in the office, but as able to hear the conversation as any of those four inside. Batman, in camouflage mode, stood on the ledge with his fingertip mics pressed to the window, the scowl on his face deepening with every word.

"I'll say this only once, Commissioner. If there's even a hint that GMP Inc. is in any way connected to or responsible for this . . . dream phenomenon, we will sue the police department and this entire city for slander and defamation of character," Landry glared as hard as he dared at Barbara. "To be frank, I'm shocked at the implication. Mr. McAllister himself is a victim, here. Hooligans burglarized the northeast plant, causing untold amounts of damage. To suggest that he is involved in this unfortunate situation is -''

"Mr. Landry, take a breath," Barbara wearily rubbed the bridge of her nose. "We're not necessarily accusing Mr. McAllister of any wrongdoing. We have a situation here: People reported symptoms within 24 hours of eating foodstuffs supplied from GMP, which had, a day earlier, been broken into. Now that's a little too coincidental, for my taste, especially as there was no apparent theft."

"That is untrue. Nearly thirty pounds of Grade Triple-Alpha prime rib were lifted," Landry replied. "Triple-Alpha, Commissioner. Only five-star restaurants use meat of that quality."

"Mr. Landry, please. I doubt that men who have the means and the weapons to break into a well-guarded operation like GMP would do so just to steal 30- credit-a-pound sirloin."

"Not sirloin, Commissioner. Prime rib."

"Er, I think what the Commissioner means, Mr. Landry, is that the break-in at GMP is quite the mystery," Mayor Danvers broke in nervously, noting Barbara's dark look. "Unfortunately, the circumstances of that situation are still quite unclear."

"The case is still open," she said curtly. "Were running tests on the hoverjet, and results from the autopsies of the men who died in that explosion are pending. But that investigation has to take a back seat to the city's current situation. We have to move under the assumption that GMP's product has been tampered with, and that means everything from GMP's plants has to be pulled from the shelves."

"Commissioner, there is a saying from the last century that I think would be appropriate here," Landry smirked, "about those who ~assume~."

"I'm familiar with the phrase," her tone was mild, but her eyes dared him to utter the words. Landry picked up on the challenge, and regarding the compact, formidable woman opposite him, wisely decided on another tack. He turned to Danvers.

"Mr. Mayor, while I am not unsympathetic to the current plight of the city, I don't believe that making Tyrone McAllister and GMP Inc. the "bad guys" here would be fair at all. The Commissioner has admitted that she has no proof of any tampering, yet because a few of the unfortunate people who are ill ate cheeseburgers, she would have Mr. McAllister lose his business and his reputation."

"Maybe you haven't been listening, Mr. Landry. All, not a few, but all of the people who are reporting the nightmares had eaten a meat product originating from GMP Inc. a day after the break-in," she, too, looked at Landry. "It doesn't take a rocket scientist to see that there is a connection."

"Well, GMP supplies much of the city's restaurants, offices and supermarkets," Landry looked smug. "Why am I not affected? Or any of my family? I had a delicious T-bone last night, and I slept like a baby."

Barbara pulled out her PDA and tapped a few keys. "Funny you should mention that, Mr. Landry - according to the data some of my people put together, each of the places who ordered product from GMP went through their entire shipments that same night - the night that it all began. There have been no more break-ins, but we can't rule out the possibility that more of the tainted meat is hanging around somewhere - or that what's been done is an inside job."

"Erm . . . well . . ." Landry looked put out. "Yes, well, but you also seem to be fine, and you were in close proximity to one of the afflicted."

"I'm not much of a meat-eater," Barbara answered. "And you will not find a vegetarian among the affected. We've looked. It seems those who avoid actual meat products - not just animal products like dairy - are the only people to have been untouched by this. Like you, Mr. McAllister," she raised an eyebrow at the sweating man. "It's rather odd that the owner of the region's largest meat-processing and packing plant would be a vegetarian himself."

"He . . . why that's . . . he has high cholesterol!" Landry sputtered angrily. "Commissioner, you have ~no~ right to imply -"

"Cecil," McAllister's voice trembled as he turned sad, pleading eyes toward the mayor. "Cecil . . . you can't think I had anything to do with this, could you?"

"Of course, not, Tyrone," Danvers said soothingly. "As Commissioner Gordon has said, no one is accusing you..."

"Guy's on a first-name basis with the mayor?" Batman muttered into the commlink. "Why am I getting a real bad feeling all of a sudden?"

~McAllister is one of Danvers' biggest supporters, Bruce replied. He was the biggest financial contributor to his last campaign, and he's pumping a lot of capital into Danvers' upcoming bid for governor.~

"Perfect. Guess graft makes the world go 'round, huh?" Batman tuned back into the conversation as McAllister's pleading died down.

"This is utterly preposterous," Landry blustered. "Mr. Mayor, with all respect, I think Commissioner Gordon is, perhaps, letting personal sentiment cloud her objectivity."

Barbara looked at him. "Oh?"

"Well, after all, District Attorney Young has been affected, and is, I hear in quite a bad way," Landry continued to address the mayor. "I hesitate to say it, but it seems that the Commissioner, in her grief and anger, of course, is seeking to assuage her feelings of helplessness and anger by pinning the blame on the most available target. Well, I'm here to tell you, Ms. Gordon, that vilifying Tyrone McAllister is not going to make your husband well, and, in fact, would be an abuse of your office."

Gordon gazed at him a moment, a half-smile on her lips. "You know, Mr. Landry, I wouldn't go casting aspersions on objectivity if I were you."

The lawyer blinked. "Excuse me?"

"If I recall correctly, you have a stake in the upcoming elections for district attorney, she glanced over at Danvers, who had gone pale. "Yeadon Landry is running against my husband. This will make, what, the third time he's attempted to become Gotham's D.A.? He'll stand a good chance to win if Sam remains ill. And the chief litigator standing in the way of the investigation into these illnesses would be his brother - you, Mr. Landry."

Landry's face turned an interesting shade of purple. "That is slander, Commissioner. Pure and simple slander. To suggest I'd put hundreds of thousands of lives at stake for an election? I am appalled. Simply appalled," he glowered at her. "I was representing Mr. McAllister and GMP well before my brother's foray into politics."

"And I was responsible for the safety and well-being of every person in this city well before my marriage to Sam," the smile had dropped from her face, and a deadly serious expression took its place. "Don't try to get into a pissing match with me, Mr. Landry. Believe me, you would lose."

Batman could have sworn he heard a chuckle come from the other end of the commlink.

"You are so interested in numbers, Mr. Landry? Mr. McAllister? Well here are a few: Seven-hundred thousand affected, three hundred dead in incidents relating to sleep-deprivation, thousands more injured, and that's just today's statistics," Barbara slammed the PDA down and leaned menacingly toward them.

"Yes, my husband is among those living out a hell no one in this room can imagine, but he is one of many hundreds of thousands who are affected. Doctors, scientists and every single man and woman in this office are working around the clock to find a cure for the sick. But our main priority now is to ensure that whatever is happening does not spread to the rest of the population," she swiveled around to face the mayor. "Our only hard lead is GMP. All I ask is that we shut it down temporarily so that my people can take a look into the place. And as a precaution, the products currently on the market should be pulled. They need to be analyzed, and -"

"One moment, Barbara," Mayor Danvers looked grim. "I was under the assumption that a full analysis was done on the meat immediately after the break-in."

"That's correct."

"Actually, it was my understanding that there were ~several~ analyses done," Danvers eyed her warily. "Is that not correct, Commissioner?"

"Yes, that's right. But-"

"Well what could you expect to find now that wasn't found then? Assuming, of course, the job your people did was thorough?" he lifted his brow as if in question. Gordon caught sight of Landry's wide smile, and she resisted the urge to backhand the smarmy grin off the man's face.

"We did our standard checks, which are several notches above the federal health department's scans," her voice was steady. "What we think we're dealing with is a delayed reactant - something that is triggered only when exposed to a certain temperature, for example. None of the patients affected ate their meat raw, which leads us to believe the delayed theory is sound - what we scanned, after all, was raw meat."

"That is easy enough to remedy," the mayor shrugged. "Get a sample from GMP's stores, cook it and then analyze it. If you find anything, we will pull the products off the shelves and close the plant down faster than you can say filet mignon."

"Mr. Mayor, that's ~not~ going to be good enough. While we're sitting around roasting a piece of chicken, thousands more might become infected."

"I don't think so, Commissioner," Danvers replied. "As Mr. Landry mentioned, he has recently eaten meat supplied by GMP and has suffered no ill effects. I practically live on the chili from Stu's Diner downtown, and the only thing troubling my sleep is a nagging case of heartburn."

"Did you have chili on the night in question, Mr. Mayor?"

"Well . . . no," Danvers shifted in his seat. "I was out of town, at a conference in Philadelphia. I returned the following day." Ignoring her triumphant look, he continued. "I think . . . I think we must be cautious, not reactive, Commissioner. I've seen data that indicates the number of people who are actually affected is tapering off, though, as you point out, more and more are hurt each day. Yet, I don't think it's advisable to jump to conclusions."

Danvers stood, and the other men followed suit. "Your people will test cooked product from GMP Inc. If anything, any pathogen, any odd bacterium, anything is found, meat from GMP will be removed citywide, and all of the plants will close - not just the flagship factory in the northeast sector. Until then, I suggest you and your staff keep your minds open to other possibilities."

"Thank you, Mr. Mayor," Landry didn't bother hiding his pleased expression. "And, of course, Commissioner, we at GMP will cooperate in every way possible with your investigation."

Gordon gave him a look that would have made the most hardened criminal lose bladder control. Landry's smile disappeared, and he shuddered under her wintry gaze.

"Good day," she turned her chair toward the window, turning her back on all of them, the mayor included, sighing deeply when she heard the door open and then shut again, silence filling the space in which so much hot air had been.

Barbara gazed out the window at the city - her city. She saw her officers decked in protective gear, some of them directing traffic, others stationed at crosswalks to ensure no drowsy Gothamite wandered out into the paths of oncoming vehicles. They were all doing the best they could, and still it was a mess. And, if the beaurocracy had its way, a mess it would remain.

Her vidphone rang, and she allowed her thoughts to wander a moment more before punching up the image of a gloomy, steely faced Bruce Wayne.

"Barbara."

"You've heard," she shook her head in barely suppressed amusement. "Where is he?"

"Outside."

Gordon glanced over her shoulder at the seemingly clear skyline. She smiled wanly; she couldn't see Terry, but she could sense him - remnants of her old Batgirl training, she supposed.

"Much as I hate to admit it, Danvers is right, you know," Barbara said. "We're grasping. And as slick as Landry is, we may never be able to pin this on the stuff coming out of GMP."

"We'll find something. But we've got to get people off the meat for awhile, not only is it a possible danger, but it's possible evidence."

Barbara frowned slightly. It'd been decades since both of them had retired their suits, and he was still issuing orders. And what was worse, she was agreeing with him.

"McAllister has Danvers in his back pocket; everyone knows that," Barbara said. "And I truly believe that even if we do find something, McAllister would push to keep it under wraps, and Danvers wouldn't hesitate to do it."

"I know. So we'll have to circumvent that. Somehow."

"I'm listening."

"Well . . . do you still have that contact at WGTHM?"

Barbara's frown became fiercer, as she realized what Wayne was getting at. "Are you suggesting that I call up the local television station and leak this information to the Web? Because if you are -"

"Everyone knows McAllister and the mayor went to see you. It's been reported in the news already that people fell ill after eating," Bruce cocked his head. "Leaks happen. How do you think I get most of ~my~ information?"

"Bruce, if I do this, Danvers will have Internal Affairs down here before I can blink. Then nothing will get done."

"People need to know what's going on," the elderly man's voice was low. "They can't depend on the people they elected to be honest with them. You said yourself that you are responsible for every life in this city."

"I am."

"Then act like it." Bruce's voice was hard. "Do what you know to be right."

Barbara glared at the screen, wondering why she could never quite muster up enough righteous anger and tell Wayne just where he could stick his advice. Perhaps it was the same reason that she continued to allow him and his young protégé to interfere in police business or the same reason that she could never seem to convince him that he needed to completely let go of the past - all of it. Who was she to tell him to do that when she couldn't do it herself?

Staring into Bruce's clear blue eyes, Barbara allowed herself a moment of reflection. The deeply buried part of her that kept the memory of Batgirl alive still loved and respected Bruce Wayne, and always would. Sometimes, against her better judgment, she let that part of her guide her actions.

And now, she knew, she was about to let it guide her again.

"Seems there are a few places in the city that aren't getting product from GMP's main plant," she said. "Namely the southwest parts of the city. I thought you both might want to know that."

Bruce nodded, hiding a smile. Terry's home and Hamilton Hill High were both in the city's southwest section. "Thank you, Barbara."

"Right," Gordon muttered. "Don't mention it."

She cut the link, and turned to gaze out the window again, circling just in time to see the Batmobile cut across the sky. She thought of Sam, tucked away in Lauderhill, wide-eyed and exhausted, slowly and constantly barraged by images too horrible to contemplate or describe. She saw, in her mind's eye, the hundreds of thousands of others who were, too, being slowly consumed by their inner demons, powerless to stop or control them.

Barbara turned away from window, and, after checking to ensure the door was firmly shut and locked, reached for her cellphone, dialing quickly.

"Hello, Mark? Yes, it's me . . . Hmm, yes, I can imagine," Barbara again glanced at the door. "Well . . . yes, as a matter of fact, I do. . . uh-huh . . . right. Off the record. You'd better fire up your notebook, Mark. You're about to get an exclusive."

Relaxing in her chair, Gordon's eye fell on her father's picture. Behind the frame, he seemed to be winking at her in approval, urging her to be strong, to lead her people, and, above all, to remain calm. Calm.



~*~



"I can't believe this. It's meat that's making all these people nutty? Meat?"

"Looks that way," Terry leaned heavily against the locker next to Max's, his eyes red-rimmed and heavy with fatigue. "All of it came from that meat plant that was broken into."

"Yeah, that's what the newsguys said on that special bulletin after sixth period. But it seems too strange, you know? Meat . . . it's just so random." Max glanced around at students shuffling listlessly through the strangely empty halls as the final bell rang. Though more than a quarter of the student body was missing, Principal Nakamura, with the blessing of the School Board, managed to keep the high school open for the few students who were managing to stay awake.

"Yeah, it is . . . but at least now people know to keep clear of it for awhile," He ran a hand tiredly over his hair. "Some of it is still out there somewhere. This is going to get uglier than you can believe."

"Maybe it's just a scam. I don't trust that "anonymous officials" rap. It sounds like they're reaching - telling us one thing when they know it's another. Or don't know at all - and that's even worse."

"No . . . this is the real deal," Terry smiled slightly, knowing, via Bruce, that Barbara Gordon was the "unnamed source." She seemed to fear nothing and no one. Whether it was a relic of her past with Wayne or something that she'd had within her all along, Terry wasn't sure. More likely, it was a little of both. "Trust me. I mean, this is Gotham. It's too crazy not to be true."

"Weird," she extracted her jacket from the depths of her locker and slid it on. "I thought the cops tested that stuff. If something was there, wouldn't it have registered?"

"Yeah, but it might've only worked when the meat was cooked," Terry jammed his hands in his pockets as they walked toward the exit. "The police ran through it as-was. But still, it seems like they should have found something."

"You don't look as sure as you sound."

He exhaled slowly, halting at the second landing. "I'm not. And if the old guy is right about all this, then this is all ~my~ fault."

"And how do you figure ~that~?"

"I was ~there~, Max," Terry's eyes blazed. "I was screwing around and showing off, and they got away. If I had followed them -"

"Then you would have been blown to Bat bits, and this city would ~really~ be in trouble."

"Maybe I could've spotted the bomb, disarmed it. And then maybe we'd be getting some answers now."

"Ter, you're trying."

"That's not good enough," he said softly. And it wasn't. Not when Matt was afraid to close his eyes even for a few moments. Not when his mother couldn't go to work for fear of leaving Matt alone. Not when people were walking into walls and taking uppers just to stay awake and seem normal.

No, ~trying~ was definitely not good enough. Especially not for the Batman.

"Don't beat yourself up over it, McGinnis. It's done," Max laid a hand on his shoulder. "Now we've got to figure out how to get it undone."

"Well . . . Wayne's got a couple of things he wants me to check, including GMP's corporate offices in Burnley. Maybe something'll pan out there."

"Sounds like a plan. Hey - that download of the guys in the break-in. You still got it?"

"Uh . . . yeah," he searched his jacket pocket and removed the disc. "But I don't think it'll do us much good at this point."

"You never know," she took the disc and put it into her pocket. "I'll give it a look. Maybe we'll get lucky."

"Maybe," he looked unconvinced. "Anyway, you got time for a fizz? I could use the caffeine boost."

"Sorry. I promised Jared I'd bring his homework and hang with him awhile."

"Oh." Terry frowned. He hadn't noticed Jared's absence from school that day, but then, there had been so many people out that it was those who were there that attracted the most attention. "How's he doing?"

The pink-haired girl shook her head. "More or less the same. Maybe even a little worse. He's keeping a huge can of bug spray near his bed now."

"Bug spray? Why?" he thought a moment. "Oh . . . right. The earthworms."

"I've given up trying to reason with him," she shrugged. "All I can do now is be there for him - I figure it's the least I can do - I can't even begin to understand any of this."

Terry smiled, knowing that her sentiment held true for him, as well. From the minute Max had discovered his secret, she'd done what she could to make life a little easier for him, though she couldn't possibly know what it was to be the Batman or what drove him to patrol the city night after night, putting his life on the line without a second thought. There were times when she shook her head in disbelief at his activities, and there were other times he could tell that she was frightened for him. But she never judged him - she was always there whenever he needed her, and even when he thought he didn't need her. Now, she was lending a bit of that same unwavering support to Jared.

Terry snuck a glance at Max in profile, his eyes furtively traveling the length of her tall, athletic form and rested on her mile-long legs. She was clad in her usual outfit of form-fitting shirt and second-skin black pants, which outlined legs any dancer would have killed for. They were shapely yes, but also certain. Max was one of the most sure-footed individuals he'd ever met - outrunning her was not an easy task, he knew, and that served her in good stead, especially when she "tagged" along on some of his missions. Jared, he thought idly, can't possibly know how lucky he was to have Max in his corner.

"I guess I'd better get going," she said, zipping her jacket to her chin. "It's almost four . . . he starts slipping under about then."

"You need a ride? Jared's place is on my way."

"Ooooh . . . you have the Brucemobile today? Schwaaay. I've been dying for a ride, but I don't know if Jared's block is zoned for super-stretch limos."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I just have the Terry two-wheeler," he pointed to his scooter. "But it's just as fast and twice as stylish."

"Thanks, but I don't think so," she said, smoothing down her pink locks. "The wind-swept look doesn't really work for me. So, I'll talk to you later."

"All right. And Max, if you find anything, ~anything~ on that disc, ~call~ me," he gave her his best Bruce Wayne "serious" stare. "I don't want you going on one of your solo exploring missions. Got me?"

"Terry, will you relax?" her expression registered exasperation. "I'll be a good little non-sidekick. Besides, I'll probably have my hands full with Jared tonight. See you." Max bounded down the stairs, joining a stream of students walking to the nearest transport station.

He watched her leave, a slight frown on his face. He couldn't say why, but ~that~ wasn't what he expected to hear. And, what was more, he wasn't sure he liked it.

~*~

"So what's the plan for tonight? A little visit to Burnley? Or the regular patrol?" Terry spoke softly into his cellphone as the elevator opened on his level, and he walked toward the McGinnis home.

"Both."

"You're getting predictable. I ~knew~ you were going to say that."

"So I guess you also know that the Batmobile has been in stealth behind the storefront down the street, waiting for you."

"I'll get it in a couple of minutes. I just want to check in with Mom and see how Matt's doing. I'll call you from the car." He swiped his keycard, and the door slid open.

"Mom? It's me," he walked quietly though the living room, dropping his backpack on a nearby chair. The apartment was still and oddly dark. "Mom?"

Terry's brows knit above concerned blue eyes as he moved into kitchen. Scanning the room for a note and finding none, he leaned against the counter, thinking. He knew his mother had taken Matt to Gotham Mercy earlier in the day, but they'd left before Terry had gone to school - he expected them to be back well before his return. But then, if the newscasts were any indication, the wait times at the local hospitals were outrageous.

Reaching into the refrigerator for a Zesti, Terry was greeted with the sight of a packaged ham. Looking at the ham, he was seized by a sudden inspiration and a sudden anger. He grabbed the package and brought it to his nose, sniffing experimentally. And though he discerning no strange smell, he nevertheless tossed it into the garbage.

Opening the freezer, Terry pulled out frozen burgers, hot dogs and chicken breasts - all found their way into the trash can. He went to the refrigerator again, shunting things aside, looking for any other meats. He found a half-thawed Cornish game hen, a spoiling package of bacon and a piece of breakfast sausage. They all came in, and the bacon and sausage went into the garbage. Terry paused with the chicken in his hand, looking at it thoughtfully.

"Terry?"

He whirled, startled. His mother stood in the kitchen doorway, a suitcase in her hand. "Honey, what are you doing?"

"Uh, just cleaning up a little, you know, just trying to help out," Terry hid the poultry behind his back. "I didn't think anyone was home. Is Matt in his room?"

"He's at the hospital. They've decided to keep the younger ones for observation - they seem to be the ones most affected."

Terry's heart sank. "What are they going to do?"

"They said they'd run tests - they weren't specific. I came to get a few of his things." Mary smiled wanly. "There's so little room at the hospital that he's sharing a room with eight other boys - two of them are from his Scout troop. It's almost like a big camp."

"Mom . . . why don't you get some rest," the shadows underneath his mother's eyes alarmed him. "I can take the things to Matt. You need some sleep."

Mary shook her head. "On the news, they're saying that all this may have been caused by some sort of food-poisoning."

"Yeah," he muttered, feeling the chicken melting in his hands. "I think I heard something about that. Something about spoiled meat."

"The doctors say it's almost impossible that it's that," she drew her hand across her brow. "I don't know. I just don't know what to believe . . ."

At that moment, Terry was only half-listening, his eyes fixed on his mother's arm. A raised, red cut there wound its way from her wrist to her elbow. "Mom, what happened to your arm?"

Mary dropped her arm, chagrined, attempting to cover it with the hem of her sweater. "That? Well . . . nothing, really. It was just an accident."

"An accident? What kind of accident?" Terry moved closer. Mary was silent. "Mom?"

"While we were waiting for a doctor, Matty fell asleep . . . he started having one of those dreams," she shuddered slightly. "He was tossing and thrashing, but I was having some trouble waking him up. A nurse saw us, and she came over to help me wake him." She went quiet for a time, toying with a stray thread on her sweater. "His eyes opened, but he seemed . . . he seemed like he wasn't ~awake~. Like he was sleeping, dreaming with his eyes open . . . and he was yelling about monsters. His eyes were open, and he saw us - the nurse and I - as the monsters killing your father," she looked at Terry, tears standing out at the corners of her eyes.

"I tried to calm him down - I put my arm around him and . . . he lashed out. He kicked the nurse. And he . . . scratched me. He didn't mean to . . . he didn't understand that it was me. He thought I was the monster hurting Dad. That I was going to hurt him. He thought I wanted to hurt him. He didn't understand. . . He didn't recognize me. Matt looked like he was awake, but for a little while, he didn't know who I was . . . he still thought I was the monster . . ."

Tears slid down her cheeks, and Terry, dropping the chicken, moved to envelop his mother in his arms, letting her sob out her frustration and fear against his chest.