Jack was paranoid.

Where did he put that remote control? He could’ve sworn he left it on the end table. He felt panic wash over his face as he checked under the couch, between the seat cushions, in the desk drawers.

Somebody had moved it.

Jack needed some fresh air. He reached for his shoes, slid one halfway onto his foot, and stopped. The shoe in his hand was sitting on the right, but it was clearly a left shoe. He had a routine; he never swapped the positions of his shoes on the floor.

Who would come into his house just to move stuff around?

And why?

It was the letter he wrote to the newspaper two years ago, he knew it. An earth-shaking exposé on the mind-controlling exploits of the Secret Service elite. Project Delphinus. The day his letter was published was the day his troubles began.

Jack was going crazy.

He tied his shoes and headed outside for a walk.

After he rounded the corner, a man in a suit and sunglasses slipped through Jack’s front door, headed for the kitchen, and drank all his milk.