Wenger was thinner than the last time she had seen him. He was sunken into his wheelchair, his body like a piece of wood already half rotted through. On the desk, the dark red metronome stood silent.
The metal arm was motionless, but Avery felt a roar deep in her eardrums-the phantom sound of ticking emerging from the depths of her memory.
"You came," Wenger said, lifting his head.
Avery did not sit. She stood as taut as a drawn bow. "What did I say to you during that hour?"
Wenger watched her. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a sudden pause of his finger against the metronome. "You know you made a call?" he asked.
"It's in my call log." Avery's voice carried a faint tremor. "But I remember nothing. The memory of that hour is a total blank. I'm a psychiatrist, Wenger. I know ex
