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the box was addressed to Sylvia.  It had no return address, but the post mark was local.  Inside was a mobile phone complete with a charger.  It had no entries in the address book, but it did have one text message in the InBox.

It's not paranoia, it's being cautious.

[I have a cell phone.  Sometimes I use it to call people.  Sometimes it makes a lot of ringy, demanding noise for no reason I can fathom.  So I have a question:  when you get a text message, can you automatically reply?]

[Yes my little telecom-quaker.  You can reply to the sender of the message.  If they are in your address book then you see the name you have given them.  If not it's usually just the number or email address of the sender.]

[Thank you.  Someday I'll get myself a Blackberry and catch up to the rest of the world.]


She licks her teeth and stares at the message, head cocked to one side like a baffled terrier.  She thumbs a message into the phone.

Paranoia means assuming nothing.  Who are you?

Sylvia's guess was wrong, but she's not too disappointed.

Yes.  Is there anything I can do to help?

Am I supposed to worry about something in particular?  Are you in any danger?

Your secret is safe with me.

And then, because paranoia seems like a pretty good idea, she quests toward him telepathically, not trying to get a reading so much as verifying that it is indeed Logan on the other end of the phone.  At least that's what she tells herself.  What she really wants is another glimpse of those cathedral windows, the edifice of his thoughts.

The placid depths are easy to find.  And they feel like you could almost ice skate on them.  He's sitting in the park, not terribly far from his house.  Feeding squirrels and texting back and forth with Sylvia.  The reflections of a hundred thoughts shimmer across his mind, some mundane and some with a complexity that is staggering.  And there is a disquiet.  A singularity that draws at his thoughts, a need to make a decision.  To take action if something doesn't work out the way it ..... should?.  the problem perplexes him, and annoys him.

Reassured, she withdraws and begins to think about what he's said.  Kung fu?  What the heck?  She should probably find someone to help her with this, but she can imagine Colin and Donnie scratching their heads and coming up with nothing but empty supposition.  She needs someone with a peculiar talent for connecting bits of nonsense together into something that barely, but sufficiently, does make sense.

She'll talk to Sarah when she sees her in the morning.