Duncan looks at his watch, then at me, and says, "So what's your experiment?"

Tomorrow, I'll know if there's a causal relationship. A real pattern.

It's just my job to tell the story. I put page 27 through his paper shredder.

Stick and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you.

I don't want to explain until I know for sure. This is still a hypothetical situation, so I ask my editor to humor me. I say, "We both need some rest, Duncan." I say, "Maybe we can talk about it in the morning."

Chapter 7

During my first cup of coffee, Henderson walks over from the National desk. Some people grab their coats and head for the elevator. Some grab a magazine and head for the bathroom. Other people duck behind their computer screens and pretend to be on the phone while Henderson stands in the center of the newsroom with his tie loose around his open collar and shouts, "Where the hell is Duncan?"

He yells, "The street edition is going to press, and we need the rest of the damn front page."

Some people just shrug. I pick up my phone.

The details about Henderson are he's got blond hair combed across his forehead. He dropped out of law school. He's an editor on the National desk. He always knows the snow conditions and has a lift pass dangling from every coat he owns. His computer password is "password."

Standing next to my desk, he says, "Streator, is that nasty blue tie the only one you got?"

Holding the phone to my ear, I mouth the word Interview. I ask the dial tone, is that B as in "boy"?

Of course I'm not telling anybody about how I read Duncan the poem. I can't call the police. About my theory. I can't explain to Helen Hoover Boyle why I need to ask about her dead son.

My collar feels so tight I have to swallow hard to force any coffee down.