Opening locked doors had become second nature to me now, and getting into Danny’s house was as simple as walking in.

It was dark when we’d arrived. We needed Danny asleep for this. He’d already shown a tendency to violence that we needed to avoid.

Danny’s wife, Clorise, lay sleeping in her bed. Danny was comatose on the couch, knocked out by a bottle and a half of rye. Some things never changed, I guessed.

“What’s wrong with her,” I asked, keeping my voice soft.

“Brain tumor, inoperable now,” Les explained. “If he’d been able to afford the medical several months ago they’d have been able to heal her.”

“Can we do anything now?”

“What do you think?”

She opened her eyes, squinting in the dark, trying to focus on us.

“Why am I here?”

I walked slowly over to the bed, to avoid startling her.

“You’re here to get better,” I told her, touching her shoulder. The familiar tingling began and subdued lightning spun a halo around her head. “Sleep,” I said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.