“Please, call me Winston. The perpetrator . . .” His voice trailed off as he considered the word and its implications. “You think someone did this to me? You think I’m not just crazy?”

   “You aren’t crazy, Winston,” I said. “We think you were affected by magic. But we don’t know why, and we aren’t sure how.”

   “There was another incident last night,” Ethan explained. “Downtown. More people like you heard things that upset them, made them fight each other. Something is doing this to people. But we aren’t sure what. That’s why we’re here.”

   He nodded, pulled a hand across his jaw. “All right. All right.”

   “Winston, can you tell us about the voice you heard?” I asked. “What was it saying?”

   He scratched his temple. “The only words I remember were ‘hello’ and ‘I am here.’ He said those words a lot.”

   “He?” I asked. “It was male?”

   He paused. “Well, yeah. I guess I didn’t think about that, but yes. I think it was a male voice. It was deep in that way. I had the sense he wanted someone to hear him. Desperately wanted it. Like he was hurting and confused and needed to be acknowledged.”

   “He was hurt?” I asked. “He needed help?”

   “Maybe, but I don’t really know. It wasn’t that specific, if you understand me. It was just begging, really.”

   Ethan nodded. “Could you tell where the voice was coming from?”

   “No, other than inside my head, I mean. I know that sounds crazy, but I could hear him—really hear him, like someone turned up the volume on the television. It wasn’t like a hallucination, or like I was pretending. It was real, except I was the only one who could hear it.”

   “Was it only a sound?” Ethan asked. “Did you happen to see anything? Hear anything else?”

   “Well, no. It was just the words. Just the same words, over and over and over again. And loud. So very loud.” He rubbed his earlobe, winced.

   Ah, but it wasn’t just the noise, was it? “What about smell, Winston? Did you smell anything?”

   He looked confused. “Smell anything?”

   “When you heard the voice, or maybe just before you started hearing it, did you smell anything unusual?”

   He looked down, gaze slightly unfocused as he considered the question. “Now that you mention it, yeah. Many years ago, I worked at a plant in Skokie—we made certain beauty products—nail polish and the like. There was usually a whiff of solvent in the air.

   “When I first started hearing the voice, I guess, I smelled something like that. Not the same, but an industrial kind of smell, if that makes sense.”

   “It does make sense,” I said, and Winston’s smile was appreciative.

   “Do you smell anything now?” Ethan asked. “Hear anything?”

   “Oh no. Not since they put me out. I do get memories, though. The words were so loud that I remember hearing them.”

   “But the memories are different?” I asked. “I mean, you can tell the difference?”

   He nodded. “With the memories, I don’t really hear it. Not the same way. I’m not sure why it makes a difference, but it does. Still loud, though. Like a flashback.”

   I looked around the room, the simple desk welded to the wall that held a cup, an apple, and a small notebook. A set of paints in tiny plastic cups along a single spine sat beside it, along with an old and chipped paintbrush. The handle was wide, as if the brush had been made for children.

   “You’ve been painting?” I asked.

   Winston blinked for a moment, looked back when I gestured to the table. “Oh, my notes, you mean? I asked if I could have a notebook, a pen. They offered me a book, but I’m not much of a reader. But I do like to draw.”

   “Could we take a look at them, Winston?”

   He scratched his cheek absently, looked back. “Oh, I don’t know. There’s nothing particularly good in there. It’s just a kind of sketchbook, you see. Just something I do to pass the time. Nights get long. I practice making things look, well, real, I guess. And sometimes I just scribble out whatever comes to mind. Helps clear away the clutter.”

   Bingo.

   “You said you wanted those images, those sounds, out of your head. Did you draw them?”

   Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Oh, I see! Of course. Then if it will help, absolutely.” He walked back to the table, the hem of his too-long pants shuffling against the concrete floor. Shush-shush-shush.

   He brought the book back, held it out through the bars.

   Most of the pages had been used. Some of the sheets were bare but for a small, precise pencil sketch. Winston’s view from his cell, the pots of paint, his hands in different poses.

   “You have a lovely hand,” Ethan said, looking as I turned the pages.

   Winston shrugged. “I find it relaxes me.”

   Others were painted abstract shapes filling the page from edge to edge, making them thick and hard to turn, the paint chalky beneath my fingers. Most were in shades of gray with streaks or lines of sharp white or black, and a few featured words in the same strong colors. VOICE on one, HEAR IT on another. There were several pages with white and gray blocks that looked like teeth, others with ears and spirals of tiny words.

   “What are these?” I asked.

   He shrugged. “The mouths, I think, that are saying all those words. The images just kind of come to me, and I draw them.”

   “Winston, could I borrow this? Only for a little while,” I assured him when he looked crestfallen. “I’ll give it back, and I’m sure we can arrange for you to have another notebook while we’re borrowing this one.”