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While still at the table in the Amore Bistro, I took out my common-use cell and made contact with Ignacio Santos. He seemed reluctant to meet with me again so soon, until I told him that I might have some clue about what had happened to Shelby Greiner. He agreed to meet at the Student Union, and I made sure that he knew I was bringing someone who could help.

"Who is he?" the firefox wanted to know.

"A friend of Shelby's family. He's the one who brought me into this." I looked quickly to Oleg who waved toward himself. "He wants to talk to you."

The fox took the phone and, in a voice softly accented in tones from the American south, he introduced himself. "Hello, I'm Marco Goodman. Thomas Greiner and I have worked together on some business for a confidential client." Grinning at my eye-rolling, he continued smoothly, "I've known the family since Shelby was just entering high school. I don't think you and I have met." He paused, listening. "Yes, we're all very worried." Another pause. "Well, I think we may have a place to start." During another pause, he looked up at me. "I trust Hunter with my life." His eyes confirmed that statement warmly. "Okay, Ignacio; we'll meet you there."

He returned the phone to me; the red panda had disconnected already, so I pocketed it. " 'Marco'?" I raised an eyebrow at the fox.

"I'll fill you in on the way."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

By the time that we had arrived at campus, I had enough information to make sure that I wouldn't accidentally tear his cloak (a phrase that, unlike "blow his cover," has far less chance of being subject to double entendre). We padded quickly to the Union and, with the help of an interior map illustration that was actually helpful, found our way to an area strewn about with couches, chairs, and tables, nearly all of them unattended. I spotted Ignacio, once again in the company of Moses Willis, who silently waved us over. I made the introductions, and the four of us sat facing each other for a few moments before I cleared my throat and began.

"Ignacio, I may ask some very personal questions. I promise you that they're important. I want to ask first about your friendship with Shelby. I think that you two are very close...?"

"We're not..." the red panda began, stopping when he noticed Moses' hand to his arm. He breathed in slowly, exhaling carefully as he said, "We're not lovers. Neither of us is gay or even bi. We've shared our fur, like I said."

"And you did this out of friendship, and perhaps a bit of need?" I held his eyes. "We all need, different things at different times. Sharing fur is intimate, a deep sharing. I ask for it when I need help overcoming difficulties in my life."

The Ailurus found himself squirming a little under my gaze. He looked instead to Oleg/Marco. "Do you really know Shelby's parents?"

"Yes," the fox drawled very softly. "They're worried, Ignacio, and so am I."

"Did Shelby tell them anything about me?"

"No."

Even I knew that this was not a lie. Oleg was at least as good an operative as myself, and he could lie brazenly without the slightest tell that any civilian (and many operatives) could detect. However, there is also the sort of truth that surpasses even the best lies because it comes from the heart. "Marco" was family-by-extension to the young red squirrel, and Ignacio's issues clearly had not come up in the family discussions.

After a long pause on the red panda's part, Moses spoke up. "Tell them, Ignacio."

The firefox was still resisting. I took the chance that my hunch was right and dove in. "Ignacio, what was Shelby helping you with?"

Yet another pause.

"Are you having relationship trouble?"

"I'm not gay," Ignacio spat again.

"But it's about a relationship, isn't it?"

His silence told everything.

"One your parents don't approve of."

Maw opening slightly, eyes wide, he stared at me.

"Shelby had been checking out books from the library that weren't in line with his major. That wasn't surprising, but the subject matter of the books was. Philosophy books about the nature of love, some interesting biographies about furs who crossed lines in their relationships, talking of how the world reacted to them. I don't think that he was reading them for his own education."

The firefox hesitated, shaking, and I let my words beat at him. "Talk to me, Ignacio. If I'm right, Shelby is in grave danger, life-threatening danger."

"What are you talking about?" Moses asked, his eyes boring into me.

I turned to face him. "Have you ever taken a photo of Ignacio and Shelby together?"

"No, but what--"

"Did you ever confuse one for the other of them, seeing them from a distance?"

The Black man shook his head. "No; their body language is different, and they..." He broke off, suddenly catching my brainwave. "Someone thought..."

"It was supposed to be me." The firefox's voice was soft with horror.

"Tell us your thinking," Oleg/Marco encouraged me.

I did my best to keep my voice calm and quiet. "Shelby had no reason to run away, no reason simply to disappear. I looked into any possible reasons why he should be taken and held. His family isn't rich, nor do they hold any power to be manipulated, like some government or corporate official. Further, there has been no ransom demand, no contact of any kind. It simply made no sense.

"Then I looked at a good photo of Shelby, seeing how closely he resembled you, Ignacio. I remembered how the two of you were last seen together, and how someone with a poor eye for details, looking from a distance, might confuse one of you for the other."

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, my forepaws clasped in front of me, working to keep my ears and tail still. "Once I considered that possibility, I had to come up with some reason why Ignacio would be taken. I checked all the same things that I had checked about Shelby's family, and I came up empty. Again, no reasons for you to be taken, and no ransom or other demands. Who would abduct someone and not demand something from his family, friends, business...?"

From the corner of my eye, I saw Oleg/Marco snap his gaze to Ignacio. Moses was still confused, although the red panda was beginning to squirm in his chair.

"Call your parents," Marco told the firefox firmly. "On the speaker, so we can all hear it."

"I haven't talked to them since--"

"That is painfully obvious. Call them now." Marco leaned forward with a menace in his mien that brooked no discussion.

Shaking, Ignacio looked to each of us in turn, but he found no escape; even Moses was convinced that something had to be done. The firefox took out his phone, made the necessary motions to call the number, and activated the speaker.

After several rings, a cautious female voice asked, "Ignacio? Is that you?"

"Yes."

"But how...? The two weeks isn't up yet."

"What two weeks?"

"No contact for the first two weeks, and then..." The voice broke off suddenly.

"Then what?" The firefox's voice grew louder, accusing. "What about the two weeks?"

Gruffly, a male voice took over the call. "Who is this?"

"This is Ignacio." The young male's voice held real anger in it. "What have you done?"

"What's the codeword?"

All of us sat stunned into silence, before the voice resumed.

"They'd give you a codeword, so we'd know you'd finished..." Like the first voice, this one cut off.

"What have you done?" Ignacio's voice rose enough to attract the attention of several others in the area. "Godsdamn you, what have you done?"

The call was ended. I made the young male pass over his phone quickly. I already had my device out, and it swallowed the connection information whole; my cadre of electronic trackers was already getting everything associated with the number and, within moments, would have every available scrap of data that could be found about the household it belonged to.

"Ignacio?"

All four of us turned toward the new voice. The female who approached moved directly toward the firefox as he jumped to his hindpaws to greet her. They enfolded themselves in their arms, shared a needful kiss, then held each other close. During their long embrace, the last pieces cemented themselves into place. Marco started to speak; I waved him into silence. Another dozen seconds would make no difference.

Finally, the two lovers separated slightly, turned to face the rest of us. Quietly, Ignacio introduced her. "This is Jonna McGraw."

She was quite clearly in love with the firefox, as he was with her. I could see by their bearing that she and he had formed a powerful bond. Her eyes spoke of sensitivity and intelligence, and she seemed to fit him as much as he did her. I couldn't blame him for falling in love with her. She was one of the most comely human women I'd ever seen.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The story took very little time to put together. As Ignacio told us of how he had stopped talking with his parents after they had thoroughly berated him for dating a human, my device burrowed into their voice-controlled home computer-link system, listening to everything said and done in the house. The parents had a short, vile conversation, ending with the father making a call. It was undoubtedly on a burn-phone, made to another burn-phone, presumably providing anonymity to both parties. Getting the number, recording the call, and getting locations of both phones were absurdly simple tasks for my device's electronic minions. Even my handlers didn't have a device this powerful; such abilities should not be in the paws of just anyone.

After that, as Marco carefully distracted the other three with assurances that he assigned no blame to them, I sent the recording and a quick note to some associates of mine to make sure that the parents would be watched and, if need be, prevented from leaving their house. I had quite a personal bone to pick with them, and the authorities would have an even greater one. There was no question of obtaining a warrant; I'd made sure it was in place and (apparently) dated a few days ago.

On the other end of that phone call, my electronic minions used the microphone of the second burner to pick up the panicked voice of a conspirator telling a co-conspirator that they had the wrong kit. They were only amateur terrorists, I surmised, as they debated what to do, actively panicking at the thought of the young 'coon identifying them as his abductors, the firefox clients claiming no knowledge of it all, and the general state of their absolute screwedness. Their location wasn't all that far away, which made sense: They wouldn't want to take their prisoner across state lines or so far away from the campus that they couldn't release their brainwashed victim back into his new "life."

We made our excuses to the trio of friends. I explained that I had "connections" with law enforcement, and I would alert "the authorities," leaving the three of them to draw their own conclusions. When we had gotten back to our car, Oleg confirmed my data and agreed with my plan. Racing at top speed once outside the city limits, I coordinated with a pawful of my own cadre to meet them at the coordinates that my device had verified. When I explained quickly what we were up against, they assured me immediately of their full cooperation. Cults were bad enough; recruitment camps were worse; so-called "conversion therapy" was antithetical to logic, morality, and life itself.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Always the cliché location," Oleg grumped quietly, once more sounding like his proper Russian self.

"Clichés exist for a reason," I murmured in reply. "For something like this, isolation of one kind or another is best. Warehouse space where there are no businesses, houses where there's no traffic or nosy neighbors, no doubt the occasional haunted mansion or abandoned asylum somewhere."

"Or this old house in the back end of nowhere."

"We can upgrade it to 'abandoned asylum' when we sell the movie rights."

The fox grunted a short chuckle and raised his compact binoculars again. He looked at the solid, nondescript dwelling that was (I agreed) in the back end of nowhere. The rough path that served as a driveway was in need of paving, gravel, or at least something that would be an improvement over what looked like ruts made by a buckboard. We had ATVs and sturdy vans at the end of that drive, a good fifty meters or more from the house.

"We might be lucky," I whispered to Oleg. "These types of loonies just want privacy; they don't expect to defend their compound against invaders. It's possible that we could just bluff our way in."

"You might get your wish,"_said a voice in our ears. One great advantage to being therian: Our ears are so sensitive that earwigs can be set to volume levels inaudible even to other therians who were a short distance away. _"Confirming five inside -- three in the front, one in a kitchen area, one at the back, on his own, appears to be lying on a bed or something."

I murmured a confirmation. Next to me, Oleg lowered his binoculars and whispered, "Silent running, infrared, onboard smart tech... Where in hell you get drone like that on short notice?"

The clipped speech, often used when he spoke with his natural Russian accent, always amused me. It was an affectation that was like another cloak. I grinned at him. "As we learned from Batman, it's always good to keep toys available."

"Holy 'Be Prepared'."

"Glad you're getting into the swing of this. Chong, you guys ready?"

"On your signal,"_the voice in our ears confirmed. _"How do you want to play it? FBI?"

"Federal Agents. Keeps it vague."

"You never know which agency might want the credit."

"Too true." I turned to Oleg. "Shall we pay a visit to the villains' evil lair?"

The fox smiled. "You know how to show a fellow a good time."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We'd gotten one of the unmarked ATVs in which to crawl carefully up the driveway (I wasn't about to risk my personal car on that not-even-a-cattle-path). The reason for caution was twofold: First, that we wouldn't risk damaging even this sturdy vehicle; and second, to give the assorted company in the house plenty of time to know we were coming. There had been no indication that this bunch was even armed, much less gun-happy. Audio inside confirmed that no one in the group had said anything about killing the 'coon; they were panicked, but not murderous. Boldness seemed the way to go.

Pulling up in front of the house, I got the last update from the backup crew at the end of the lane. A lot of confusion and hushed conversation inside the house proved that we'd been spotted easily. The bad guys sounded like they were working out a reasonable set of excuses in case we turned out to be lost travelers or something. Clearly, no one had foreseen this possibility, and their lack of preparation was our good fortune. Oleg and I were improvising like hell, but that's what we're good at.

The drone kept scanning, and our ground crew kept reporting. The person in the kitchen area seemed to be moving around quickly; the three in the front room were trying to peer out from behind blackout curtains. For our part, we got out of the vehicle, conspicuously looking around at everything other than the house. The goons watching from inside would be given the impression that we considered them far less a threat than whoever might be sneaking up behind us.

Reaching the front door, with Oleg close behind, I rapped my knuckles quietly on the door. "Open up; it's us."

No reply from inside, as expected.

"Open up, dammit; we've gotta shut this thing down before the cops show up."

Further hesitation.

"Will you open this friggin' door? We're here to get you out of here!"

"Who sent you?" a voice from within wanted to know.

"The Fang Fairy; Santa was busy handling the elves' strike." I made my voice more aggressive. "Who do you think sent us, numb-nuts? You've been compromised. We're the clean-up crew. Now, open this door before I get angry. You wouldn't like me when I'm angry."

I heard sniggering in my ear. Totally worth it.

"You armed?"

"You wanna find out the hard way?"

Another two seconds, then the sounds of locks being thrown. The door opened a crack, and an older dog stuck his muzzle out a short distance. "What are you gonna do?"

"Would it amaze you to know that a clean-up crew actually cleans up? Outta the way."

Pushing my way in made the dog stagger back a few paces. I'm a reasonably good size for a sable, meaning that I'm not usually the biggest fur in the room, but I'm plenty big when I'm standing on my ego. Oleg was right behind me, closing the door behind him quickly and making a great show of peeking around the blackout curtains, no doubt making sure that "the cops" hadn't followed us up the drive. I surveyed the room with barely a blink (took me a while to develop that skill; worth the effort). The older dog who met us at the door was the most obviously nervous of the lot. The other two -- an early 20s spotted hyena and an equally young serval cat -- were still trying on their Dangerous Thugs attitudes based on some movie or other. I was reasonably sure that they weren't particularly threatening even on their best days, and this situation had gone utterly pear-shaped for them. The hyena had an ill-concealed blade in a sheath at his back; the overall stance of his cat companion suggested some form of martial arts. I figured I could take both of 'em in a flat-bedded wagon in about ten seconds. There was still no evidence of guns or other weaponry around here, although I had my suspicion of at least one more thing, something that would be used for "therapeutic" purposes.

"Get your stuff together," I prodded them. "You're gonna need to get out of here before we take care of the kit."

"Whadda ya gonna do?" the hyena wanted to know.

"The less you know, the better," Oleg informed him from his post at the window. The fox had taken on something of a Goodfellas-type accent. I was glad that he was enjoying himself so much.

"I was told there were four of you," I said, "not counting the kit."

A bit of knowledge goes a long way. The dog visibly relaxed, figuring that I had no way of knowing that information unless I was actually part of this backwoods conspiracy. "Yeah; the doc's in the kitchen, packing up."

"Okay; we'll see to him. You," I said to Oleg, "go see about the kit. The rest of you, get your tails out of here. Got a car in the back?"

"Yeah, but," the serval protested, "what about prints, fur, fiber, all that stuff?"

"Too much TV," I told the cat, shaking my head. "They'll have a helluva time trying to collect evidence if we torch the place."

As Oleg moved toward the kitchen ahead of me, I kept a weather eye on the cat; he was more inclined to try stealth, while the 'yeen was more likely to make a direct attack, if he felt threatened. The older dog had already started packing things up, clearly happy to abdicate his responsibility and take my suggestion.

The "doctor" turned out to be another feline, a dark-furred cougar perhaps a little short of his half-century, lean but not muscular, quick of paw, lamp-like eyes. He glanced up at us sharply, his body going rigid with suspicion. It seemed to me that he had been expecting someone who clearly wasn't me. I broke in before he could say anything.

"We got sent instead."

Still no movement from the cougar. "We have been compromised."

I had only the fraction of a moment to register the faintly Germanic accent to his voice. I didn't think I could stand one more cliché. "You and the others get out of here. I have no idea how much time we've got."

"The yowen is in a critical phase."

Damn; another cliché. "It won't matter. Like I said, we'll take care of it. Pack up your gear and leave it to us."

Had he been more attentive, the cougar might have wondered why I made such a superfluous motion as to wave toward my companion. I had to signal Oleg of my suspicions with a particular gesture of my forepaw, and a certain flick of his tail told me that he understood.

The "doctor" started moving again, packing some things into a box and other things into a classic leather physician's bag. This told me that he fancied himself a neurologist, as they are almost exclusively the only type of physician to carry them anymore. I could see syringes, a few phials, some amber prescription medicine bottles; I could imagine the contents of these to be anything from insulin to phenobarbital to psychotropics. The most obvious weapons from the bag would be a scalpel (or, more likely, a keratome for finer work) and a loaded syringe. I couldn't check his pockets from a distance, but he was wearing only ordinary clothes, nothing with deep pockets like a lab coat would have. That would have been yet another cliché and, despite it being appropriate, there had been too many already.

"You are prepared to take responsibility?"

"Just get out of here, doc; we'll do the rest."

Oleg had made his way to the door of the back room, which was probably once a porch that, at some point, had been turned into a makeshift storage space. This door wasn't far from where the cougar was packing his things, so I braced myself for the attack on Oleg that I was reasonably sure would be attempted soon.

The fox padded quietly into the dark space while the cougar kept putting things away, although more slowly than before. I moved to a point closer to the cat's other side, making hurrying motions and gathering up things that I saw on the countertop to place them into a nearby box. The cougar didn't complain, which told me that he was sure we weren't who we were supposed to be but hadn't yet figured out what to do about it.

Softly, a small, weak voice came from inside the room. "M... Marco...?"

Raising his head in surprise, the "doctor" again froze momentarily.

"Better hurry things up, doc," I told him. "This is a bug-out, not a dance."

I really did expect the cougar to make some allegedly witty retort during his move. My use of the trigger term "bug-out" had alerted Oleg to turn around. He dodged just enough for the "doctor" to avoid touching him with that other "medical device" I was worried about -- a stun gun. I grabbed the cougar's arm, as he shouted out. The noise drew some hollering from the front room, and I knocked out the cat just as my fox friend had turned toward the wave of punks coming into the kitchen.

Things got confused fast. Oleg got in a punch on the 'yeen, I dodged a swipe from the serval's claws, and we all could hear the older dog screaming about trucks and lights, his own voice nearly drowned out by short bursts from sirens and shouts from external speakers loudly announcing that FEDERAL AGENTS had the place surrounded. The punks were surprised enough by all that noise to give me and Oleg an extra half-second to provide some sucker punches that took the fight out of them. Slightly more than ten seconds. I must be getting slow.

Checking quickly in the front room, Oleg found the dog standing near the door, arms to his sides, shaking as if he were having fits. "Unarmed," the fox called, seemingly to the air.

"Confirmed," I agreed.

Moving the dog to one side, the fox opened the front door easily, allowing the first few of our colleagues to enter. The German Shepherd at the front grinned at us. "You coulda let us break the door in."

"Too much excitement isn't good for you, you know." Oleg returned the grin. He got some zip-ties from the Shep, then joined me in the kitchen to take care of the punks. I nodded for him to go check on Shelby while I trussed up the cougar with only slightly more aggression than might have been warranted. I considered myself to be the very model of discretion for not giving in to some "accidental" infliction of pain, and I was just a bit too proud to spit on him. I let myself be satisfied with what would happen to him in prison, once his crimes were known to the general population.

While the rest of the crew carried out the trash, I padded silently to the doorway of the back room and looked into the darkness. I refrained from turning on the light. Neither Oleg nor I would need it to see, and there was no telling what sort of drugs might have been poured into the young 'coon; his pupils might be like saucers, at this point. We both had experience with the rescue of torture victims, so neither of us made any quick moves or loud noises.

"Shelby?" The fox's soft southern drawl caressed the air. "Can you hear me?"

It seemed to take far too long for the answer to materialize in the dank air. "M... Marco?Can't be..."

"Yes, it's me. It's Marco."

"Lying." The voice, weak, tear-filled, clearly trying to fight off another nightmare.

"It's me, I promise. Sniff me. Trust your root senses." Another moment before he said, "Whatever happened to that vixen you used to date in Pennsylvania?"

Slowly, cautiously, the reply came. "Erie?"

"Well," the fox admitted gently, "I always did think she was a little strange."

A pause. With slightly slurred speech, he asked, "Did you put the cat out?"

"Why?" the fox drawled softly. "Was he on fire?"

This exchange cemented the identification for Shelby; it was clearly something that they had shared. Now the tears came more fully as the voice tried to rally. "Is it... okay?"

"It will be, Shelby. You can push past it. Now, I need you to reach out for me. Reach your forepaw to me."

Again slowly, with effort, the 'coon's forepaw reached up, and Oleg took it gently.

"Real, see? Really me. And I'm going to get you out of here."

Desperate need gave the young male the strength to wrap his arms around the fox. I nodded to Oleg and went to get the paramedic.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Shelby Greiner was undernourished, dehydrated, and had endured everything from ice baths to insulin shock to electrical shocks, but there had been nothing more chemically mind-altering than the more run-of-the-mill hypnotics. Psychedelics, used properly, can help with many crippling mental illnesses; they can also be misused to implant nightmares and cause horrifying mental and physical damage to the brain. Our would-be mad scientist cougar was sociopathic but not stupid enough to try genuinely dangerous misuses. A reasonably skilled hypnotist and torturer, he had simply followed the "conversion therapy"/exorcism guidebooks closely, promising good results to his clients. Indications were that this wasn't his first; I was ready to help make it his last.

The raccoon was physically stabilized in hospital that night, no doubt having some real sleep for the first time in well over a week. He felt strong enough to see visitors beyond blood family by the next afternoon. "Marco" visited, as did Professor Khabensky and the trio of friends who still weren't wholly convinced that they weren't somehow responsible. Shelby, along with his sire and dam, did all they could to reassure them. Marco, sensing when the time was right, suggested giving them collars of different colors, to tell them apart. The laughter and raspberries succeeded in dispelling everyone's fears.

A week after our rescue mission, Oleg finally got to see the inside of Dickens House, allowing him to confirm that it really was as lovely as it looked in pictures. Earl, my favorite coyote bartender, provided to me my usual libation, and I took the liberty of presenting my guest with a White Russian. Adopting a plummy Oxford-bred accent, he said, "I say, I've not even heard of this one! I do lead such a sheltered life."

The fox does test my ability not to guffaw at his outrages.

In my preferred high-backed booth, Oleg filled me in on the rest, from Ignacio's parents being arrested along with the rest of the miscreants, to their combined efforts to plea-bargain by naming as many names as possible to help tear down the rest of the organization behind this particular group of idiots. I was sure, sadly, that there would be plenty of others to supplant them.

"What confounds me," Oleg admitted, "is that they were therians, like us."

"Neither prejudice nor stupidity is the exclusive domain of humans, moy drug. There are those of us who say that we're 'acting human' when something like this happens. Humans will call these villains 'animals,' before they see both the prejudice and the irony. After all, they too are animals." I raised my cocktail glass to salute my friend with my Praying Mantis -- a stylish upgrade from the Grasshopper. "Here's to rising above the worst of us, whatever our species."

Clinking my glass gently with his own, he sipped before saying, "I can give you a good example of that. Jonna's parents had already heard much of Ignacio; they have met him now and are proudly welcoming him into their family. I think their holidays will be rich."

"Is there to be marriage?"

"That is for the future," said my wise friend. "Family does not need such formalities." He offered that as a toast, and I accepted it gladly.

"Only one other person you've yet to tell me about."

"Young Moses? He has his friends back, he laughed with the rest about the two colors of collars, and he continues his work toward a degree in engineering."

Considering carefully the look in my friend's eye, I smiled gently and nodded. "Perhaps that is enough."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

After Oleg and I had parted for the evening, I telephoned Moses Willis to ask how he was doing.

"Just glad everyone is safe," he said.

"I'm glad, too, although there's a favor I'd like to ask of you. Can you tell me how Shelby is coming along?"

"Trying to pick up the pieces, from classes to his own life. Ain't easy."

"Quite the understatement." I let my voice carry the smile to him. "I'm guessing that you've been helping him with Professor Khabensky's course?"

"Sure have. He's catching up, and all of his professors have been really good about letting him get back into things slowly."

"I'm surprised he didn't try to take the semester off."

"He has to keep going, or else student loan payments start kicking in."

"No exceptions for traumatic injury or illness?"

"Uh-uh. Banks don't give a f--" The human cleared his throat. "They're pretty demanding."

"You were right the first time." I waited for the nervous chuckle to subside, then I said, "Moses, some of the things you said, when we first met, made a big impression on me. This is the favor that I want to ask of you. I want you to go to Shelby, look him in the eyes, and ask him, 'Will you share your fur with me?' You know the Response, don't you?"

Hesitantly, he said, "Yes, I do, but how could I--"

"Shelby needs someone, and I think you do, too. I know that you spent time in a war zone. You've both seen your own portions of Hell." He didn't answer right away, so I continued. "You said that you know it's not about sex; it's about intimacy. I'd be surprised if Shelby has been able to sleep well, especially alone. He needs to talk, and not just to the doctors. He needs to connect, deeply and fully, with someone he can trust, someone who also knows what Hell is like. He needs that lifeline. Can you do that, Moses?"

After a long pause, he asked, "Mr. Hunter, do you think I can do this? I'm human."

"Moses... you are not just human. You are humane."

Except that my ears were keen enough to hear his breathing, I'd have thought that he'd hung up. "Thank you, Mr. Hunter."

"Call on me. Leave a message, any hour; I promise I'll get back to you."

His goodbye was as soft as the night around me. There are times when I feel that the world is spinning pretty well after all.