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outlandish jig.
    And as a result, it was Patrick who noticed the car pulling up, not Kelly.
    It was Patrick who felt his stomach turn at the sight of red and blue lights coming to life.
    The halting whoop of a siren, almost undetectable beneath Kelly’s hysterical peals of laughter.
    It was Patrick who broke out of his trance, running toward Kelly as the patrol car pulled to the curb, and a pair of uniformed officers stepped out, already reaching for their cuffs.
    All this, apparently, on the morning of May fifteenth, two thousand motherfucking eight.

s far as Patrick was concerned, there were three types of police officers: the kind who had better things to do, the kind who had nothing better to do, and the third bowl of porridge, which was always just right.
    The two officers in Kelly’s kitchen were of the first order. While both their features varied slightly—from age to eye color, build to facial hair—their attitude made them fraternal twins. It didn’t matter that they had just started their shift, aftershave and deodorant still fresh under matching uniforms. It was of little importance that Patrick had shown them the utmost respect. Even with a naked Kelly McDermott, now thoroughly under wraps as he sat at the kitchen table, this pair of policemen was already watching the clock. Uninterested eyes floating about like overfed manatees; both had pulled out matching citation booklets, pens, and yet neither bothered putting one to the other. It was as though they hadn’t even found the energy to agree on which one would be faking any interest in the situation.
    And Patrick couldn’t have been happier about it.
    What would have ordinarily offended the slight sense of civic pride he had, Patrick now welcomed as a brilliant bit of luck. After all, these two had better things to do. A couple of little white lies,seasoned with a dash of big fat ones, and everything would turn out just fine.
    “So.” The mustached officer absently picked at his bristles. “You have a history of sleepwalking, Kelly?”
    “I’m not sure …” Kelly’s earlier excitement had abated, though none of it seemed to be out of respect for the situation. He remained with the paper clutched in his arms, blanket wrapped snugly around him. Tousled blond hair covering eyes that glanced over in Patrick’s direction. “Do I have a history of sleepwalking?”
    Officer Mustache turned to Patrick, raised an eyebrow.
    “Well, there you have it, Officer …” Patrick did what he could not to take the officer’s look and throw it in Kelly’s face. “How’s a guy going to know he’s got a history of sleepwalking unless he’s awake, am I right?”
    “So does he, or doesn’t he?”
    “Not officially.”
    “Not officially,” echoed the clean-shaven officer, eyes bowed slightly as though writing it down. He had remained with hat planted firmly on head, perhaps to detract from gray streaks infiltrating his sideburns. When he looked up, his eyes shot over toward Kelly. “And your parents are where?”
    Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know—”
    “Hilton Head Island,” Patrick interrupted.
    “Hilton Head,” Kelly repeated, nodding his head slowly.
    “They’re visiting a client,” Patrick added. “Kelly’s parents are lawyers.”
    “You seem a little out of it, Kelly …” Officer Mustache madehis way around the table. “Eyes looking a little red there. You been doing any kind of drugs this morning, late last night?”
    “No sir, Officer, sir,” Kelly replied, appearing somewhat surprised at his own certainty.
    “Seems like that’s the only thing you
are
sure of.”
    “Yet, you don’t even know where your parents are.” Officer Sideburns rounded the other side of the table. “You sure you haven’t been doing any drugs there, son?”
    “I’m positive,” Kelly affirmed, with a less-than-positive frown.
    “He doesn’t
do
drugs,” Patrick volunteered, addressing all he could to Officer Sideburns. “Period. I mean, he’s in