Dear Ted,

I don’t need to remind you of how I helped your department find that child in ‘94, or my assistance in ‘00 in the pursuit of the Silver Creek Killer. You once asked if I’d ever dreamed of my own death. You tried to draw me out, but I never explained why your question bothered me.

I couldn’t tell you I’ve had the same dream every week for twenty-three years: I’m pushing against a crowd on a packed street. It’s just finished raining: the streets are wet and the air is full of the oily, electrical smell of city rain, and people are wearing raincoats. I am pursuing a man or woman wearing a hooded coat or poncho. This person carries something important – but I don’t know what it is. As I walk past a door, motion catches my eye; I turn, I see a flash and something slams into my chest….

You’ll receive this the day Detective Serling suggests I was a bystander hit by a stray bullet from a drug deal gone wrong. I assure you this isn’t the case. The man I’ll be chasing must be stopped.

-Frank