"Give you a ride home, sir?"

Normally he would have refused. Normally he would have demanded to see some credentials. Today he was tired, mentally exhausted for the first time in two months. Who knew Simmons had so much busywork that needed to be filled out? He had turned into a goddamned secretary.

That thought didn't arouse nearly as much offense as it should have, and some part of his brain moaned. The rest was buzzing like an open phone line.

"Yeah. That's fine."

The kid, maybe twenty-three at the oldest, walked ahead of him, purposely making noise with his heels on the thin carpet. It was unnecessary. Sands could have found him by the slithery noises his sleeves made against his coat, the creak of his shoes as his feet bent inside them.

But whatever. He was too tired to care. He stepped through the door the kid held open for him, then waited for him to reclaim the lead. And the car, too, was just nice enough to ignore. He sat in the front, purposely neglected his seatbelt.

"Mind if I turn on the radio?" the kid asked. Sands wondered, Hale or Yarvard? He couldn't pick out the accent precisely. Arizona, maybe, but they always tried to pick up some local dialect in their Ivy towers. Couldn't catch it here. And god, they were recruiting early. Surely he hadn't been such a young little twat when he joined the fold.

Sands waved a hand dismissively. NPR filled the spaces between the seats, poured slowly from the speakers and rose slowly to the ceiling, pressing him with its smooth, mellow sounds of in-studio jazz bands and sociopolitical commentary.

His wrists hurt lightly, far-away, from touch-typing for hours and hours. He'd asked for a typewriter so he could at least feel the paper and see if he'd spelled it right, but Gloria told him there just wasn't a typewriter to be had so just do the best you can, honey. She asked if he'd talked to the Braille tutor yet. He said yes. She knew he was lying. He turned on his heel and stalked back to his office.

The breeze, five stories up, fluttered his hair as it slid over his shoulders. He kept his back to it so it wouldn't distract him too much. He wanted to sit by the window; wanted it very badly, in fact, and told himself he was turning into a creepy window-sitting old man. He kept his ass planted firmly in his wheely chair and typed. At lunch he scooted around his office seventeen times, counting the back of the desk as he went by.

"Whee," he said sarcastically, and stopped. The taste of Mexico was in his throat, hot and dusty and redolent of copper, saffron, motor oil, exhaust.

He had to put his head down on his desk for some time before it was gone.

Sands breathed deeply, coming back to consciousness, if not light. He had been dozing in the car. Something was off.

"You all right, sir?" the kid said from his left.

"Where are we?" Sands asked him.

The radio fuzzed out for a second and in that space Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency was as disoriented as he'd ever been.

"There's an awful lot of traffic on Seed Street," the kid said, exasperation thin in his voice. "I decided to go around instead of through."

"Good idea," Sands replied. The leather armrest under his hand was slick with his sweat, but he wasn't hot. He wondered if he was coming down with something. He rebuked himself for refusing to learn Braille all this time. He rebuked himself for rebuking himself.

The kid made a left, then another, then a right, and Sands knew where he was again.

The apartment lobby smelled different, nicer. By god, he thought, they finally cleaned the carpets and I can't even see how many shades lighter they are. He told himself they were periwinkle blue now instead of navy. That satisfied him.

His key wobbled in the lock, not working for a minute; he clamped down on the voice that rose in his head, feminine and sarcastic.

leave me alone, he thought weakly, and his key slithered home and he was enfolded again by the walls he knew so intimately.

Something awoke him and he rose clumsily from his dreams, struggling toward what his instincts had flagged for his attention. Now what? The sheets were two hundred thread-count manacles. Was it a sound or a vibration? He replayed the last few seconds in his mind. A click? When had his apartment—

he fell back asleep.

All right, the bagels were gone, then. Damn. So much for his devious poppy-seed plan, but nothing ventured, yes? Maybe they didn't do random drug tests any more. It's not like he gets a lot of memos these days.

Sands whirled around suddenly, slamming his hand against the countertop, displaying some of the otherworldly grace he had in Mexico. In that one instant his mind was clear and focused, crystalline and sane. He moved like a deadly serpent and under his palm, faster than a bullet's whine, a paper towel met its end.

He stood unmoving for a second, but the tiny, tickling, scuffling noise was gone. He picked up the paper and felt under it hesitantly—if he found crumpled legs and wings, or if his finger slipped across cockroach guts, he would probably yell—but there was nothing. Mixed relief and disappointment. That just meant he'd have to smash the fucker later. He wasn't looking forward to it.

Across the hall, Mrs. Beasley's shitty little Pom started barking. It was ignorable, but only just.

Oh my God, if that roach gets in my coffee, how will I ever know? He stopped dead, his mind whirling. What then? What indeed? All right, filter systems, or a spoon, maybe. The phone was ringing. If he left his coffee on the countertop and the little bastard crawled in for a mid-morning hot tub swim, he wouldn't know until it bumped against his lip as he drank—

he ran for the phone.

"Simmons, my love," he said sarcastically.

"Good morning, Sands."

"Playing truant officer again, Rudy?" He had a cordless phone and suddenly considered going retro. He had a tactile urge to twirl a phone cord around his hand while he talked. How long had it been? Hadn't his mom had one? Yes, a big heavy bastard. Some color—something that had slipped away already.

The Pom across the hall was still barking, then shut up abruptly.

I've got to learn how she turns that thing off, he thought, and learn to do it from here.

"Sands, if you're coming in today, I have a few things to discuss. Slade's been asking for you."

"Oh, all right. I can't wait to join the Crip Corps."

"Sands—"

"What?"

"Nothing. Never mind."

Sands grinned, a sickly expression, death's smile on his face. He was feeling quite jolly, by God. Only Simmons could do it for him these days. He leaned against the counter and heard something clatter distantly.

"Oh, shit. Hang on a second, Bob, I think I dropped something." He put the phone down without waiting for a reply and crouched down to sweep the floor with his hands. He didn't feel anything in the immediate vicinity except some grit and dirt. It hadn't really sounded like a spoon. So what was it? He felt a little farther and still encountered nothing.

"Well, damn." Maybe it had rolled under the counter, whatever it was? He didn't particularly want to put his hands under there. He decided to get it later.

"Right, I'm back."

"You find everything all right?"

"Got my balls. What else do I need?"

"Right. Great. I'm sending a car around for you, Sands. And I called the Braille tutor."

"Oh, Simmons, you shouldn't have!"

"Consider it an early Christmas present."

"Oh gosh, I just don't know what to get for you, Rudy!"

"Get your ass in here and we'll call it square."

"My ass is not square!"

"Goodbye, Sands."

"Bye bye. I hate you." He was speaking to an empty line. He hung up. He put on his jacket, his leather gloves in the pockets, his gun snug against his ribs for little more than habit's sake. He patted it. Good ol' Emma Sue.

"Mr. Sands, a car is here for you." The old intercom was a little scratchy, the voice of Stuart the Doorman familiar as Wednesday.

"Fantastic," Sands remarked, then poked the button and told Stuart he'd be right down. He found his sunglasses and stuffed them in his jacket pocket.

"Gonna wink these baby blues at everyone today," he said to himself and giggled. He stepped out into the hall and locked his door. Somewhere further down he could hear an alarm clock just going off. He smirked. It was the same tone as the please-close-the-goddamn-door alarm at work. God, how annoying would it be to wake up to that sound every morning? There must be only one composer of alarms, he mused, and the guy's partially retarded. He could only come up with seven or eight tones for all the alarm systems in the world.

The car was exactly where it should be, the driver young again, his head giving off the scent of some fruity shampoo.

"Good morning, sir," the kid said.

"You smell like a girl," Sands replied, cranky. The kid was silent.

"Really, I think I'm all right without this after-school program," Sands muttered, refusing to shake the hand of the Braille tutor.

"It's not like you to turn your nose up at free training, Sands," Simmons said with great good humor. The Braille teacher chuckled. "Don't worry. I'll take good care of him."

"You'll need to keep a close eye on this one," Simmons said, and the tutor roared with laughter.

"Oh, Bob. All right, we'll see you at three."

"Of course you will!" Simmons was laughing right along. Sands stood aside, his lip curled slightly. He felt incredibly surly. None of this was very amusing. Simmons clapped him on the shoulder. "You have a good time, Shel."

"Yeah. Thrills." Simmons only laughed and left the room.

"Why's he in such a good mood?" Sands asked, not expecting an answer and not getting one. The tutor, Cox by name, took a seat. Sands restrained his juvenile urges to make fun of that name.

"You ready to get started?"

"Sure. Why not."

They worked for two hours and made great progress.