Standing in the center of his one room apartment, dressed in nothing except a pair of briefs, Dumas let his eyes go back and forth between two containers -- a bottle of pills and a desk drawer.  Both held the only things capable of helping him sleep.  But both had their drawbacks.  If he took the morphazine capsules, he might be deep in some drugged oblivion when Chester called with news about Mari.  But if he opened the drawer, he’d pay for his rest with torturous mix of wet dreams and nightmares.<br/><br/>Dumas had been faced with this decision for the last several days.  And, unable to make it, he’d rejected both options, choosing sleeplessness instead.  But now he was teetering on the edge of exhaustion.  Today, it had to be one or the other -- the bottle of pills or the drawer.  And it couldn’t be the pills.  What if Mari needed him?  What if Chester went after her alone and got himself into some horrible mess?  No, it couldn’t be the pills.<br/><br/>Like a man in a trance, Dumas walked over to the desk.  Touching the drawer handle, he lightly brushed away some of the dust that had accumulated there.  Then, with a surge of resolve, he yanked the drawer open.  But he didn’t yet look at its contents.  Instead, he reached one hand inside, fumbling around until he located the pair of military ID tags.  Still not looking, Dumas traced the name stamped into the thin metal.  Would he be able to identify each letter by touch alone, if they weren’t already burned into his mind?<br/><br/>A shrill noise, something between an oven timer and an air raid siren, jolted Dumas from his thoughts.  Slamming the drawer shut so fast that he nearly caught his hand in it, Dumas seized his phone and hit the ‘Receive’ button.  Like a good soldier, he didn’t speak until Chester finished giving his report.  However, he did scurry around with the phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder, attempting to gather up his clothes.<br/><br/>“The old train station?” he demanded.  “What the hell is she doing there?  No, right -- of course  you don’t know.”  Hopping on one foot, Dumas struggled into his pants.  “Meet me at the intersection of Seventh and Looking Glass.  I can make it in fifteen minutes, maybe twenty at most.”<br/><br/>Pausing, Dumas tried to think of some way to give a warning without also insulting his friend.  Ultimately, he couldn’t think of anything, and decided that the warning was more important than the magician’s bruised pride.  “And Ches...if you get there first, don’t be a hero.  I know you think you can take care of yourself.  But in the real world, bullets kill monsters, not magic words and clouds of dry ice.”