Over the Edge

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IT WAS my first middle-of-the-night crisis call in three years.

A thousand days out of practice, and there I was, bolted, upright in the darkness, clutching the receiver with sleep-slowed fingers, queasy and drowsy but ready for action — my voice soothingly professional even as my brain struggled for a toehold in its climb toward consciousness.

Slipping into the old role with autonomic ease.

There was a stirring from the other side of the bed. The phone had wrenched Robin from sleep, too. A blade of lace-filtered starlight striped her face, the perfect features restfully blank.

"Who is it, Alex?"

"The service."

"What's the matter?"

"I'm not sure. Go back to sleep, hon, I'll take it in the library."

She looked at me questioningly, then rolled away in a swaddle of covers. I threw on a robe and left the bedroom.

After switching on the lights and wincing at the glare, I found paper and pencil and picked up the receiver.

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