It was pretty much the crack of dawn on Tuesday when I got a call on my land line. He was in Fairhaven and needed a ride. I picked him up about an hour later at the bus station of all places, and I have to say, he looked slightly worse for wear. Fynn was dressed in the same clothes from Friday night when I had last seen him, or not, in Partners. Not quite so impeccable; his clothes were caked in mud, and his shirt was stained by something red. “Are you okay?” was my first question. He lowered himself into the Saab wearily. “It was a somewhat difficult journey,” he muttered almost under his breath. He looked at me. “What’s wrong, Patrick? You seem rather somber this morning.” “Nobody does that, not in the real world.” “What?” “Disappears into thin air. I saw you.” “Nonsense, it was a trick of the light, an illusion…”
