The order of reality was tangled. Petra’s blowjob was the first thing that came to mind when asked by the FBI agent what was he remembered that morning. The agent, Cole Howard he said his name was, focused on Peter as though he were a condemned man. The three other agents, all dressed in sharply-pressed navy suits and dark glasses, stared at him with intent. The small room felt stifling, and was almost comical in its cliché, as though pulled from the set of a 1970’s cop show.

Peter asked for a cigarette; the request seemed the logical thing to do at the moment. It had been five years since he had last touched one, going cold turkey and battling the urges, losing to the kitchen for fatty snacks. That probably poisoned his body worse than any Marlboro would ever do.

The man closest to the door removed a packet of Dunhills from his suit jacket.

“Take as many as you’d like, Mr. Seymour,” he said, his voice bland. After all, Peter was a condemned man. All because Petra disappeared.