"Jesus Commodore sixty-four…" Dash exclaimed under his breath.

Danny was levitating off of his bed. His loose black tank top twisted in valleys and wrinkles over his chest. The fabric was unsure where to fall. The same could be applied to his lilac pajama bottoms, as the drawstrings sat upright on the waistband. It was as if Fenton's whole body was in a bizarre agreement with the force of gravity.

Baxter's first instinct was to get Fenton down, but he didn't even know where to begin to do that. But he was there. He was right there when he should have been halfway down the driveway.

The jock rushed to Fenton's side, grabbing his arm— only to recoil when he felt how cold Danny's skin was. It was like plunging your bare hand into the deep snowfall. The shiver followed Dash's bicep and clung to his chest. The center of his hand was bright pink, and it became difficult to even bend his knuckles. Despite Dash's best efforts, he couldn't muscle through the cold. Like touching the surface of ice, it felt like Danny took a fraction of skin with him in the separation.

By all logic, this shouldn't be happening.

That's a rookie's mistake using logic in a place like Amity Park.

Okay, okay, okay, okay, Dash needed to calm down— he needed to take a breath… count to ten.

And that didn't help—oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!

He held his hands together, still shivering. Legs trembling, it felt like he was one strong breeze away from caving in.

"Uh, hey, F-Fenton? You wanna wake up? You wanna wake up and— and s-stop doing that now?" The athlete pleaded, hoping that the solution would present itself just by virtue of not being the only conscious person in the room.

Dash didn't think he'd be saying this to Danny, regardless if he was practically comatose and pulling a levitation act that would leave Houdini in awe— but Baxter continued, "Please, wake up! Fenton, you gotta—"

His mouth nearly snapped shut. How would 'please' get them out of this situation?! 'Please' didn't change the fact that Dash was out of his depth and out of his pay grade.

Trouble. This was troubling. It was that dizziness that somehow Baxter had done something wrong and that this was his fault. It was a ridiculous idea; Dash was still tight in the chest. Sweat beaded off his forehead, and Dash knew he was in trouble. Not nearly as much trouble Danny was in, of course, but he could hardly wrap his head around it.

Dash couldn't be the only one in this room consuming all the oxygen— He was panicking. The athlete was disastrous under pressure.

What was he supposed to do?

By all means it… it didn't look like Danny was in pain. Just asleep and six feet or so up in the air. Hell, he didn't even look uncomfortable from where Dash was standing. Rationalizing it that way made his breathing stabilize.

It was surreal in a way. The way the light couldn't reach his body. The beams of grey rain light hit the floor through the curtains, but it barely skirted Danny's fingertip. All Dash could think about was the rain, crows outside fighting for territory on the telephone wires, and his heart beating out of his chest. He could hear the blood in his ears…

Water. He thought of the water.

The numerous oil paintings depicting the character Ophelia came to mind. In every artist's rendition, the woman had a serene expression on her face. She, too, didn't seem to fear the frigid river. As whatever madness afflicted her only seemed to lead her into further bliss.

It was so… uncanny.

Baxter was standing at the bottom of an invisible body of water, and Danny was just gliding on the surface. Starfish, his limbs spread out and sprawling like always. Nothing ever seemed to bother Fenton. Dash was staring at a person who truly had everything and didn't know it.

This annoyed Dash and only steeled his resolve to get the ghost boy down.

"Dammit, Fenton!" Baxter took a stance and angled to figure out a different approach.

He was hesitant to touch Danny. At least skin to skin—

Fully aware that Danny slept like the dead, the still blond muttered, "Gah! of course, you'd pull some horse piss like this."

Wait.

Is he… moving?

There were these little stirrings from his throat. Mutterings, maybe, whimpering? Whatever it was, it was indistinguishable. It might as well be scribbles and chicken scratch but in audible form.

Danny's resting face began to fold with distress as he rolled on his side away from Dash. The ghost boy gradually rose towards the ceiling— floating even higher and out of Dash's reach. What the hell is with the Fentons and their love of tall rooms?

Okay, I'm not a doctor, but something tells me that's not a sign of him getting better!

There was a pulse of electricity coursing through his body. Dash was no longer thinking. He solely operated on instincts. All he was now was a mass of nerves sending signals to his limbs. The starting forward jolted in place and nearly fell over himself—

Scooping up all the blankets, Baxter quickly discerned which was the heaviest. The winner was a red and blue quilt with embroidered constellations on the front.

With a wobbling dismount, Dash landed on the bed. It creaked in protest at his landing.

"Just like net fishing—" Baxter assured himself, "Just like net fishing in reverse—net fishing a nerd in a barrel… rrrrrrrreversal."

Let the record show Dash Baxter had never gone fishing a day in his life.

He beat the quilt a few times to ensure the fabric wouldn't bunch. Then with one final fluid motion, Dash threw one end over Danny's still floating body. Now with both ends of the blanket within reach, the starting forward may have been a little too overzealous. Is it so wrong to want a pat on the back? He did solve it all by himself, y'know.

Nervously, the jock chuckled, "Alright— Okay—okay, that's it. C'mon back. C'mon back to earth, spaceman."

Maybe it was the pressure or the fact that the blanket was partially covering up the only way Danny could feasibly breathe, but the ghost boy started to thrash. Kicking and rolling against whatever force kept him afloat, Danny was taking the starting forward with him for the ride.

"Oh, no, you don't—! I don't do heights!" Dash had some sense to hold on. His knuckles whitened as his grip on the tether became tenuous at best. Tenuous, but tight nonetheless.

Dash bucked back, hoping his sheer mass would somehow weigh them down.

It was sometime around this point, while experiencing the perspective of the toy stuck in the grabbers of the claw machine— the lights in Danny's bedroom came to life. Flickering rapidly and with so much intensity, it nearly bathed the entire room in white light, if only for fractions of a second.

Objects around the room followed suit; they fell into the air as if they weighed less than nothing. Models came off their shelves as if they were real rockets ready for launch. Wrappers and clothes levitated from the floor.

If this were a horror movie, Danny's stomach would have been leaking geysers of kool-aid-colored blood (with the same consistency) as the score's percussion struck sharply as he continued to throw himself from wall to wall. The room should've been torn apart from the inside out, but it wasn't. It was like watching a fuse eaten away by the flame, the anticipation palpable, as Dash was a few inches off the mattress.

They sat there suspended in physics and gravity. They hung there until Dash was sure his arms would give out. The tension in his biceps ignited across his nerves as he held his own body weight.

The rain pelted against the windows, and the wind howled against the screens. It was the only evidence that time was moving at all. The outside world seemed so distant from this scene Dash has unwittingly found himself in. He traced back through the steps and beats of the morning, wondering if there was any sort of warning sign—

Well, Dash woke up in Amity Park. That was his first problem.

He got dressed, half stumbling around in the dark because he had slept past his alarm. It was going to run cold today; it was autumn. It was only natural. He threw on a random black sweatshirt out of the literal dozens he owned. Thankfully it was one of the plain ones. His father got into this habit of bringing back clothes emblazoned with whatever kitschy state logo or motto from his travels. Dash had grown to dislike them. Dash was old enough to apparently make his father breakfast and prepare the old man's pills— but god forbid if Dash picked out his own clothes.

That's what he did next, Dash organized his father's pill container. The old man had to take his medication three times a day under differing conditions. With food, without food, before certain other pills in the order— The directions were all very clear and specific; not at all wordy and smudged really easily when your hands sweat. He made breakfast, putting it all on a white square plate, and leaving it at the table with the morning paper.

He did every single ritual and routine today as if it were any other. With no complaints!

He imagined that when he finally figured this all out, Dash would head back to practice— come clean, and one of his friends would ask—

'So what did you and Fenton do?'

And he'd answer in this completely hypothetical scenario, 'Oh, you know, we just hung out.'

Dash stifled a tired chuckle, and his head slumped— I'm so glad no one was around to hear that.

"Hey Fenton, anytime you wanna stop doing this whole… thing. This Linda Blair meets Rosemary's Baby—" Baxter emphasized, his scowl becoming interwoven with his words, "Thing—"

Perfectly aware that the other side of the conversation was wholly unconscious, Dash continued to mumble, "That'd be great, dude. It'd be phenomenal. Fan-fucking-tastic, really."

How is this my life?

Wiggling, Dash swung up and started to climb up the blanket. If Danny wasn't gonna come down, then up seemed like the logical conclusion. Hand over hand— Dash's vision started to wane. The ground was more than likely a couple of feet down. Though that didn't negate the fact that Dash would more than likely still manage to hurt himself at any height. Seventy percent of stair accidents happen on the stairs, you know.

Reaching Danny, Dash barred an arm over the ghost boy's waist. Even through the blanket, Dash could feel how cold Fenton's skin was. Being just fourteen, Dash didn't know what a dead body felt like— nor did he want to, but this is what he suspected all those tv shows meant by cadavers being cold. The Fentons needed to get their kid to the hospital. Dash needed to get this kid to a hospital. Of course, that was all dependent if the starting forward could get him down—

"No? Of course, s'not like you ever listen to a word I say anyway!" Dash looped another arm around Fenton's pencil-thin body.

Fighting against him the whole time, Danny began to sink and fluctuate. Wrestling with the blankets and against the anchor that sought to weigh him down.

Somewhere amidst all the flailing limbs, Dash was struck hard by Fenton's rogue elbow— everything got a bit fuzzy after that.

Mission accomplished. They got down.

Jazz came home, and there wasn't a team of police investigating a homicide, so tentatively, she wanted to call this a success. Not in any hurry to be out in the rain again, she took a moment to decompress in her car. Running her hands through her hair—she cut the engine, letting the radio play. It was something in the top forties she mindlessly hummed along to.

The passenger seat rustled with plastic bags; Jasmine took inventory of the groceries. Her life had no right to be this hectic. In an instant, she understood why her peers were so ready to leave. Jazz liked taking care of people, but she had very little time to care for herself. Whether consciously or unconsciously, she passed the buck to her friend. And she was wrestling with the ability to feel guilty about it. She had one afternoon to pretend to be someone else. Removing the keys from the ignition, the song cut. She gathered her composure. Jazz loved her family, she loved her brother probably more than she loved herself, but she was running on fumes and diet coke. Jasmine was—exhausted, waiting for that love to be returned. She was losing herself in the big picture to the point where she could barely identify her own reflection looking back at her in the rearview mirror.

The thing is, she would be content if she were Sam and Tucker. As ridiculous as it sounds but she envied the closeness they had with her brother. Jazz would be fine if she had any other last name than Fenton. Some were born lucky, and some were fortunate enough to still be here.

She tapped her forehead on the steering wheel. Was it immature to say she missed her Mom and Dad? She wasn't eighteen yet. So it was still allowed, right? Jazz didn't want to leave, but it felt like there was no room for her now. Didn't she deserve to occupy space too?

Thoughts drifting, she let her mind wander. Wander into all the depths she'd typically taped off and condemned. Jazz racked her brain. It was raining hard, just like this on the day of the accident. Jazz, at that time, was hunkered down in the library— her nose in a textbook about the collapse of the ottoman empire. That's when she got the call. It was from her mom. She had gotten home from unloading another box of unsold ghost hunting equipment at the storage lock-up. She and Dad were on a farewell tour, essentially having a brief grieving period for their careers. It sent a shiver down Jazz's spine to imagine what the scene was like when they came home. The call's signal was so jumbled in the back of the ambulance going down the road at blistering speed.

"It's Danny,"

"Sick—"

"Not good."

"Emergency room."

"Food,"

"—Fridge."

"—Call Back."

"Love you very much."

…Was all Jazz could clearly remember hearing. That and her father— her father was crying. She didn't think he was capable of it. Jazz mistakenly thought her father had carved off the part of himself that cried. The voicemail made her whole body heavy. Her heart… ached. All color had left her face as the phone in her hand lost all ability to stay up. Her hand had hit her lap. It was the first time she had ever raised her voice in a library.

It was funny. Jazz used to believe she had all the answers in the world. She used to believe she was smart. How was she supposed to know her brother had died? How was she one of the last to know? It almost made her furious, manically furious. So angry, she wanted to start laughing, just to feel anything else, then the all-consuming rage.

"I'm gonna make it up to you somehow," Jasmine vowed.

Sanctuary could be found in the driver seat of a used car your parents bought during their gap year in college.

Taking her groceries, Jazz ran inside.

The door closed behind her. She was expecting to see a football player sprawled out on her couch and watching tv. Though Dash wasn't there. Which meant he was still upstairs. Jasmine removed her jacket and put her keys on the hook. She called out, "I'm home."

Finally coming to, the jock felt his head throb— What happened?

He tried to open his eyes but was met with a wave of sharp pain. Dash winced as his vision adjusted. He reached to the right for where he kept his glasses on the nightstand, but his grasp was left empty. Right, Dash isn't at home—and he was sure by how his scleras were burning he fell asleep with his contacts in. That thought struck him. Dash isn't in his home. Why?

Christ, it's like that scene in Big. One of his legs was dangling off the edge. This bed was so tiny. How are normal-sized human people supposed to fit on this bed? God, my head is killing me.

Then nearly immediately afterward, the pain in his head dulled and submitted to the absolute zero cold that overwhelmed his body.

That didn't seem to matter as he heard a voice coming from somewhere. Baxter's response was trapped in his chest and came out garbled.

Attempting to sit up, Dash was met with weight directly on his sternum. It anchored him to the mattress. Glancing down, Dash saw an untamed mane of black hair clinging to his shirt.

Puzzled, the jock croaked, "Fen-Fenton?"

The ghost boy stirred at the sound of his name. Though this did nothing to rouse him from his slumber. It just caused Danny to nuzzle Dash's chest further, deeming this newfound pillow not soft enough. Ice cold hands pawed over Dash's body, Danny's palm landing in the very center of the jock's face. Like Danny was blind and trying to make a topographical map of Baxter's face, he squeezed, pulled, and touched Dash's cheek— finally pinching his nose.

He murmured into Dash's stomach, "You're so loud."

Danny's hand fell back onto the abyss of Dash's tshirt.

Baxter felt the ghost boy's nose against his abs.

Well, this took several turns from how he predicted his day would be going. Heart hammering out of his chest, Dash tried to squash down how nice the weight felt in his arms. He blinked several times as if he could force himself awake. Because this had to be a dream.

A nightmare. Dash corrected himself.

Dash really didn't want to think how this was the closest he's been to another person in probably a decade. They were practically breathing each other. Dash could smell the kind of shampoo Danny used— that cheap green apple anti-dandruff kind. Was Dash supposed to be here? This is the longest Baxter had been embraced. The tangle of limbs was unfamiliar and new, and he never knew he needed it. God, how was Dash supposed to know he needed this? How was he supposed to know if he was shivering because he was freezing or…?

Danny shifted again, grumbling under his breath. This time Fenton's arms secured themselves around the small of Dash's back. The starting forward wasn't going anywhere now.

This was bad. The jock couldn't break it down any further than that. This looked bad. It made his stomach knot. He wondered if his intestines could do him a favor and make a noose to hang himself with. Dash had enough sense to remember to breathe but just enough. They were deep, shuddery breaths that nearly burst his lungs.

Dash didn't want to think that he was shivering because his body didn't know how to cope with being held. It felt like vines of wisteria were claiming his throat, blooming with the obvious declaration that something— was very wrong. It was this otherness that Dash had felt creeping over his shoulder for years now. That alienation that kept his peers from getting too close. That wall was breaking down. Something was very wrong with Dash Baxter. Something he can't name. If he gave it a name, it would swallow him whole and drown him. Dash didn't want to give these thoughts room to breathe, to grow. If he suffocated the fire and flooded the kindling, maybe he could convince himself that what he was feeling was nothing more than a proxy. He just didn't want to stop holding Danny Fenton. He didn't care how cold he was now. He didn't care how it felt like he was experiencing hypothermia. Dash's happy to be in this bittersweet hell of his own making.

Dash could live with people not liking him; He's used to people hating him. Hell, Dash couldn't stand himself on the best of days. But Danny? Why couldn't Danny just like him back? It would be so much easier than pretending that it didn't hurt.

"Guys?" That voice again.

If Dash is in here with Danny, then that must mean—Oh shit, Jazz.

On instinct, Dash brought his leg back up. Effectively centering Danny on his stomach. The bedframe creaked.

There was a knock at the door, "It's pretty quiet in there." The elder Fenton asked, "Getting a lot of studying done?"

"UH, DON'T COME IN."

WHY DID I SAY THAT!? Dash needed somehow to figure out how to hang himself with his own intestine slipknot and then invent a new way to extract his tongue from his skull.

There was a long pause. A pause Dash didn't expect. Sweat beaded off his forehead and rivered down his neck.

"Why can't I come in?" She had that tilt to her voice where he imagined she was making that face where her lips fell and her eyebrows arched— that skeptical way that cut straight to the marrow.

Yeah, genius, why can't she come in? It's her house too.

"Uh— Danny's, um—I'm…"

Don't say naked. Don't say naked. Don't say naked.

Somehow the jock managed to get out, "It's, we're uh… not… decent?"

WHY DID YOU SAY THAT!? You're hopeless. We're doomed. Oh god.

How is it possible for a person to have this little control over what they're saying? It was like a race to see which awful thing would reach his mouth first. If Dash somehow survives his tongue gouging and the subsequent game of hangman—he'll light himself on fire.

There was another excruciatingly long pause. Jazz finally processed Dash's answer, "What?"

"Okay, that was a lie." Dash admitted nervously before gently trying to figure out a way from under Jazz's brother, "—But, seriously, don't come in!"

"Baxter, I don't think I have to tell you that telling me not to come in only makes me more concerned."

Finally opening his eyes, Danny stretched out, "Is that the sister? Is the sister here?"

His voice was weak from coughing and dry from everything else.

"I love the sister," He yawned, propping himself, hands at the jock's sides.

Dash flushed as Danny crawled off of him and shuffled to the door. His legs parted waves of clothes on the floor. Wobbling the whole way through the mess.

The younger Fenton opened it to his sister, and his face scrunched up, "Where're my drugs, sis?"

She sighed with scrutiny, "... Are you drunk right now?"

Dash glanced at the pill container on the nightstand with the foil punched out, and then his eyes fell to the empty cough syrup bottle discarded on the floor. Things are adding up, if only slightly.

The ghost boy blew a raspberry, "Wha— no. You're drunk." He shoved her shoulder with the remaining strength in his body, "You idiot, you're drunk. Freakin' dummy."

Turning back around, Danny jolted at the sight of Dash Baxter, of all people, on his bed. The younger leaned to the older and whispered, "You see him over there too, right?"

Jazz cocked her head before bolting over to the bed, "Oh my god, Dash, what happened?"

Dumbfounded, Baxter blinked, "Huh?"

"Your eye?" She pointed out quietly.

"My eye?"

Suddenly, Jasmine reached up and grazed the shiner with the pad of her thumb—

"Ow!" Baxter retreated back on the bed, barring his arm between them, "Easy with the merchandise, princess."

She winced on his behalf, "That looks really bad…" Jazz looked over her shoulder to her brother, "Do you wanna explain what happened?"

Shrugging— the ghost boy jostled from foot to foot, "I-I didn't'd even know he was h-here." Danny's balance was failing him as he slurred, "Why're you here, Dash?"

Before the jock even had a fraction of a chance to answer, the aspiring psych answered for him, "He was supposed to bring over your homework. Where's your homework?"

Jasmine spun back to the starting forward, "Where's his homework?"

Helplessly, Dash waffled between a muddy version of the truth and shrinking into his shirt like a turtle. With so many Ums and Ahs—

Jasmine finally threw up her hands and cast an accusatory question to her brother, "What did you do?!"

"Why'd you assume I did somethin'?" Danny pointed to himself with his fists landing on his scrawny chest.

Jazz crossed her arms, "Because it's always you! Every time I turn my back, you're doing god knows what—"

Danny gestured to Dash, "How'd you know'd he didn't'd already waltz in here with a black eye!?" He scoffed, "Noticing things isn't really your strong suit, Jazz."

That silence came back.

The elder Fenton opened and closed her mouth several times. It was very clear she wanted to say something but couldn't.

Dash got the feeling he happened to stumble into some kind of… minefield. He wasn't supposed to hear that.

Shoulders shaking, Jazz took in a razor-sharp breath through her nose. Her eyes fell to the seam where the wall met the floor.

"Jasmine?" Dash wanted to find her eyes, to confirm that she was okay.

"I'll be downstairs." Coldly, she snapped, "Fail or don't, I could care less."

"W-Wait—Wait, Jazz, I really need to talk to you about something!" The jock called out.

She bristled past the door, knocking shoulders with her younger brother. Her footsteps were heavy down the stairs. Her stance was utterly defeated.

Danny's focus found Dash. The ghost boy growled, "You're next, Baxter." He hacked, "—Out."

The moment was over. It was nice to pretend for just a little while and entertain the idea that maybe what Dash wanted wasn't entirely impossible. Inching off the mattress, the starting forward got to his feet and gathered his things under his arm. The jock was about ready to cross the threshold and disappear down the stairs just like he should have done at the very beginning.

Danny murmured something—

Vaguely, it sounded like," —bitch thinks I can't take care of myself."

Halting in place. Baxter straightened his posture.

That's when Dash remembered; he's supposed to be the bad guy.

Before the door closed, the jock wedged his foot in the frame.

Danny laughed hoarsely, "I don't know if you know how doors work, but you're supposed to be on the other side of it."

Dash muscled his way through, dragging the ghost boy back by the scruff of his tank top and throwing him back on his bed.

Before Danny even had a chance to register the change from standing to sitting— Baxter was already dumping the contents of his messenger back onto the ruffled sheets.

"I'm not going anywhere, Fenton."

"Excuse me?" Danny spat and furrowed his brow.

"Did I stutter—" Dash enunciated, "Fentoad?"

Slamming the paperback novel in Danny's chest, Baxter explained the first assignment, "You're reading and summarizing a passage from Slaughter-House Five."

"Easy." The jock sat down at the desk perpendicular to the bed, "I could do it in my sleep."

Danny scowled, "You've officially lost your mind; if you think I'm listening to anything you say—"

Producing his CD player from his mess of jackets, Dash rested his headset on his neck. He kicked his feet up on the desk table and leaned back in the chair, "Sorry, I can't overhear you over all the bitching."

The ghost boy jutted his chin in protest, "But—"

"Aw, go cry me a great lake, sweetheart." Baxter feigned a sympathetic pout.

Then the jock sneered, laying out the engagement rules, "I promised Jazz I'd get your sorry ass an A. And buddy, you're getting that A." Dash had that mischievous glint in his eye, "And, yes, before you ask, that's a threat."

Taken aback by his brutal efficiency—Danny swore Dash's smile could be registered as a weapon.

Danny would never say he's afraid of Dash. It's Dash. It would be like being afraid of a golden retriever covered in cotton candy, rainbows, and glitter.

Occasionally, the ghost boy would remember how tall the jock was. How big he was. God, Dash was huge. The silhouette would intimidate anyone; it was such a human reaction. It was shocking to know that Baxter was holding back when he terrorized the halls of Casper High.

His strength didn't compare to that of the Phantom, obviously, but the physique was an admirable feat. Dash certainly lived up to his reputation as a jack-of-all-trades athletic savant. Wrestling, swimming, football, basketball, baseball— What couldn't Mr Perfect do?

Danny would kill to look like that.

It wasn't surprising that Dash was popular. He came from a factory where popular people were made. He was both the standard in the derogatory and complementary sense. He was the basis for the mold everyone had to fit into. Dash Baxter was the standard. He was a gun with a scratched-off serial number. Utterly untraceable. No one could decide who Dash was because no one knew who the jock really was. Baxter was a handful of adjectives at most.

Dash Baxter—

Made Danny's stomach hurt. It was childish to say, but Dash really made his stomach hurt. In an unexplainable way.

"Do you got a staring problem as well as a hearing problem, or what, Fenton?"

Fighting the bile and indigestion making an appearance at the back of his throat, Danny spoke caustically into his fist, "Do you want me to call you 'sir' too? I really wanna help you fulfill your fantasy of being a middle manager at White Castle."

Leaning back in the rolling chair, Dash firmly rested his arms across his chest, "Whatever gets your rocks off, Fenton. If imagining me in an apron is what does it for ya—" His smirk deepened, "Hey, I'm glad I can help."

Deadpanning, Danny muttered, "Uh-huh…"

He swept a hand through his coal-colored hair. It was an innate reaction, but the sparse hair on Danny's arms stood up— Dash was looking at him. Out of the corner of his eye, Dash was staring at him.

"What?" The ghost boy demanded.

Swallowing dryly, Dash's wandering gaze flitted back to the window, "S'nothing."

"—Something funny?" Danny sniffled before that discharge leaked into his throat and drowned his voice in a coughing fit.

Idly Dash toyed with his CD player again, popping the lid open and closing it multiple times, "Do you ever sleepwalk?"

"Huh?"

With a sigh, as if recognizing how ridiculous and odd the question was, Baxter repeated, "Sleepwalking. Sleeptalking—Have you ever had a habit of doing that?"

Finding that inquiry totally out of leftfield, Danny sneered in confusion, "How would I know'd?"

"Nevermind." The starting forward bristled, "Forget I said anything."