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windows with his laughter, giving Kelly a few odd pats on the chest. “No, I don’t supposehe could, now,” he agreed, getting up and motioning Officer Sideburns toward the back door, laughter trailing behind him in giggly little bursts. He wiped a tear from his eye as Patrick opened the door, ushered them out onto the deck.
    “Sorry about all this, Mr. McDermott,” Officer Mustache called over his shoulder before turning to Patrick. “You keep an eye on him, son. Got a big life ahead of him.”
    “You bet,” Patrick replied amicably.
    “Shit.” The officer grinned. “Time he gets to Ohio, he’ll be
playing football
in his sleep!”
    Another burst of satisfied laughter.
    Patrick nodded, grinned widely, and shut the door.
    Kept his pearly whites on display, cheeks straining, until he saw them safely around the corner. Patrick could almost hear his face creak back into neutral as he let out a shaky breath. Placed his arm against the door, and leaned his head against it. He closed his eyes, trying to get past what had just happened. It was over, done. Probably hadn’t been more than five minutes, from the time the cops had caught Kelly dancing around outside …
    Patrick opened his eyes, spun around.
    Kelly’s seat was empty.
    “Kelly?” Patrick called out, voice cracking.
    A muffled response came from nearby.
    Patrick walked into the middle of the kitchen, gritty feet scraping against the floor.
    The door to the walk-in pantry opened, and out came Kelly. The quilted blanket now wrapped around his waist, heheld a box of coffee filters in one hand, a bag of Starbucks Italian Roast dangling triumphantly from the other.
    “I
thought
I remembered my parents as big coffee drinkers,” Kelly announced, pleased as a toddler with a block of wood. “I hope this coffee tastes as real as the rest of this feels…. Crazy, baby.”
    “Kelly …” Patrick followed Kelly with his eyes, over to the coffeepot, where Kelly scooped up the plug, holding the cord in his fist like a dead black flower. “You don’t drink coffee.”
    Kelly searched for an outlet. “You want some?”
    “I don’t drink coffee.”
    “Why the hell don’t you drink coffee?”
    “Because
you
don’t, Kelly.”
    Kelly found an outlet, stuck the plug in. He paused, leaning against the counter, frowning. “And why the hell don’t
I
drink coffee?”
    “Because it’s unhealthy.” Kelly found himself repeating what Kelly had always told him. What Patrick, as a result, had always been proud to tell others. “Caffeine is addictive. It raises your heart rate, causes dehydration, which in turn can lead to gradual muscle damage. Not to mention that, as a stimulant, it keeps people from sleeping in ways that perhaps, you know … we shouldn’t be doing to ourselves….”
    Kelly nodded thoughtfully. “This is all true. However, it does bring up an interesting question, doesn’t it?”
    “It does?” Patrick watched with disbelief as Kelly proceeded to prep the coffeemaker. Filling the pot, three scoops in the filter, smacking open the basket, plopping the filter in as hetransferred water from pot to reservoir, all with the efficient speed of a lifelong coffee drinker.
    “And that question is …,” Kelly continued, smacking the basket back into place and snapping the power on with a swift flick of his thumb. “What happens when dreamers drink coffee?”
    Patrick desperately wanted to figure out what was happening to Kelly, only Kelly didn’t seem to be giving him any
opportunity
, and so he entertained the question as best he could. “What do you mean?”
    Kelly lifted himself up onto the counter. The ease with which he did it seemed to fill him with pleased astonishment, and he glanced down at his biceps. “Hey, check me out, I’m not half bad.”
    “Kelly, dreamers, what were you—”
    “Shit, that smells good,” Kelly said, leaning in close to smell the brewing coffee. He straightened, hands pressed against his thighs in a casual