The tired dining room seemed to have a haze blurring the details beyond the table's chipped wood top.  Exhaustion was bordering on sleep deprivation.  As the breakfast crowd began to be replaced by people arriving early for lunch, R.J. took no notice of the activity around him.  He kept his head down and ate the number four platter mechanically.

This wasn't the type of place people came to for brunch.  At 11:30 the laminated menus featuring pictures of bacon and eggs, pancakes, and waffles were replaced by those featuring photos of burgers, club sandwiches, and an unappetizing bowl of brown crap that the caption identified as chili.  Everything was numbered to simplify ordering. The patrons pointed at what they want and a numeral was logged on the order pad, no one needed to think too hard about a process.  Once, dozens of these outposts of reliable, facile dining dotted the country, but that was back when Reagan was in the White House.  Now the few that remained stayed in business as if by black magic—some unnatural force that drew people through the doors—a charmed blend of nostalgia and ignorance.  

R.J. burped discreetly into his paper napkin.

The two glasses of orange juice with his cheese omelet and sausage patty had left him with severe heartburn.  Acid clawed its way up his throat like a physical reminder of his anxiety.  Anticipation and worry braided around themselves in the depths of his gut. 

R.J. had been up for over twenty-four hours.  He desperately needed to get a few hours of sleep before the next transformation.  But he doubted he would be able to do more than doze, even with taking caffeine out of the equation.

Alone in the quiet of bed, R.J.'s brain had begun to betray him.  The journey to slumber was no longer a simple one.  His mind would spring thoughts on him as soon as that elusive land of dreams was in sight.  As unwelcome as they were, the dredged up memories and ideas were impossible to ignore no matter how many times he dwelt on them.

One of the more frequent topics that was turned over in his head ad nauseam was the upcoming eclipse.

The exact influence of the moon on LARS's transformation remained a mystery.  By putting the Subject underground, they had proved that it had nothing to with its light being visible.  R.J.'s current theory was that it was a result of the gravitational pull, like the tides.  And it was no secret that a lunar eclipse affected the tides, so what might it do to a lycanthrope?  He'd been waiting almost a month to find out.

Behavioral changes were to be expected, but if a nocturnal animal would become less active during an umbral eclipse, then what would happen with a creature who experienced such dramatic physiological changes?  Would she revert to her girl form completely or partially?  Or perhaps it would weaken the wolf and take some of the fight out of it.  What if the girl's psyche regained control while the moon stayed hidden?  If that were the case, maybe they could have her submit to a physical exam while conscious. 

The possibilities were dazzling.

Of course, there was always the chance that nothing dramatic would happen.  It could just be a minor blip in the EEG readings, or simply nothing at all.  He was pondering the effects of shadows and light—who really knew how any of it affected the creature?  But R.J. skirted around the pessimistic thoughts too enrapt by the exciting possibilities.

The air conditioning of the restaurant disappeared behind him as the door shut.  The sun was beating down on the parking lot with fire-like intensity.  He only had a vague memory of paying the tab with a few ragged bills from his wallet.

Looking out at the streets and strip malls blotting the desert horizon, his mind skipped like a warped record and landed in the deep scratch known as Mila.  It seemed that he didn't need to be lying in bed to get waylaid by thoughts of her.

He would never see her again.  There had been an inevitability to that outcome flitting around his brain for years, but now there was a leaden weight to the concept.

In a pitiful burst of self-hate, he had tried to look her up on the internet.  But she had vanished.  A casual search had turned into elaborate cyberstalking and what he found troubled him.  She hadn't been at the University of Greifswald since May of 2010.  Her last known address was a house in Nueunkirshen that was now the residence of a man who spoke no English.  She wasn't on Facebook or Twitter.  No search engine could bring up anything on her since she left her job at the university.

R.J. had contemplated hiring a private investigator but wondered how the DTAA would react to that.  There was something subversive about searching someone out when you were in hiding yourself.  He couldn't imagine it would go unnoticed by the Agency.  And the last thing he wanted to do was jeopardize his position in the Music Box.

The night of their breakup continued to haunt him.  It had been R.J. who ended their marriage and it continued to wear away at his soul.  Even if he had every right in the world to tell her to leave, he should have forgiven Mila.  Who was he without her?

He had been reckless.  R.J. could never recall another time when his passion for Mila had turned in such a dark and raging direction.

He stormed through the house.  His feet banged on the creaking wooden floors on the way into the kitchen.  A fleeting desire for a glass of water propelled him past his wife, who he didn't even want to look at.

"Do you really want me to leave?" she asked.  Her voice was small and raw.  R.J. had never heard her so hurt.

"They retested the samples.  It was bear fur.  A fucking bear." 

"So they got it wrong.  There was bound to be a bias toward more mundane findings."

"Two labs.  Two.  Separate.  Labs."  His voice was strained like an out of tune violin cord.  He opened and slammed the cabinets, the glass he was looking for forgotten about, but his body kept on in some quest to keep busy and to make noise.

The lynchpin of their proof for the existence of a colony of Sasquatch in the Gilchrist State Forest had just been revealed as a fraud.  Years of work gone in a flash that seemed to rip reality out of his grasp.  His career would never recover.  He was done.

"Calm down, Honey."  She was beside him pulling his hand away from the cupboard, her other arm looping around his bicep tenderly.  Against her calm body, his own shook.  "We knew there would be attacks on our evidence from the establishment.  We'll batten down the hatches and ride it out.  It's what we do."

"The second test was mine."  He yanked his arm free.  "Why Mila?  Why?"

"You don't think I...?"

"Don't play dumb.  You handled all of the genetic tests personally."  Not waiting for an answer, R.J. stomped back into the living room.  "How could I have been so gullible?"

"So this is my fault?"  Now Mila was yelling.  Her hurt blossomed into indignation and fury.   "You don't get to come in here and throw around accusations.  Maybe the samples were corrupted?  Did you ever think of that?"

"And maybe you wanted to stay on-site another week because you didn't feel that the footprint casts were enough to build a career on.  Maybe you felt fabricated evidence was the only thing to propel you into the spotlight.  That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?"

"I don't have to take this."  She bolted for the stairs, tears visible on her flushed face as she rushed up to the bedroom.

"Wait.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean that."  But he had and they both knew it.

R.J. headed for his car in the side lot.  Rounding the corner of the building, he had to sidestep to avoid a woman leaning against the brick wall smoking a cigarette.  A cloud of smoke circled around him like a curious ghost.  The familiar aroma sent R.J.'s hand fishing around his pocket for his nicotine gum.  His fingers toyed with the foil, but he hesitated, deciding to wait until he was in the privacy of his car.

"Nightshift?" the woman asked to his back.

"What?"  He turned around to look at her. 

She was young—early thirties most likely.  Her face glowed from the morning light reflecting off a sheen of sweat.  Her dark hair was pulled back in a black bandana.  She was dressed plainly in a pair of jeans and a wrinkled white button-down shirt.

"You work the nightshift, right?  You look like you do."

R.J. wasn't sure how to take the comment.  He patted his hair back as though suspecting it was a mess.

"Yeah, I work nights.  Sometimes."  When the moon was full or when he forgot to go home.

She nodded sagely and took another draw from her smoke.

"I work in the kitchen."  She tossed her head back at the restaurant.  "I've seen you through the pass.  When you work these hours you start to recognize the regulars.  I guess it's because of the boredom.  Is your work boring?"

Just the vague reminder of LARS sent a tremor of exhilaration through him.  "No.  It's actually very exciting." 

"What do you do?"

Uh-oh.  R.J. felt the sweat affixing his shirt to his back.  His cover job was anything but exciting.  He was suddenly very eager to get back to his car.

"What are you a spy or something?" she said answering his silence and the look of worry on his face.

"No, I work at Aira Cosmetics.  I manage their animal research lab."

"You put mascara on monkeys?  No wonder you don't like telling people."   

"It's not like that.  It gets a bad rap."  He rubbed the back of his neck.  His palm came away slick.  Then he gave a little nod at his car as if to signal that it was impatiently waiting for him.

"No kidding." She spoke flatly without belief before taking a deep drag off of the depleted cigarette.   "But hey, it beats scrambling eggs at three in the morning, huh?"

"I guess."

"Trust me, it does."  She pulled out a fresh cigarette and lit it off the old one before crushing it out.  "Want one."

"No thanks, I don't smoke anymore."

"Geez...um?"  She reached out as though trying to grasp something in the air between them. "What's your name, anyway?"

"R.J."

"Geez, R.J. don't you know anything?  Cigarettes and coffee are how you survive the long nights."

"I'm doing okay."

"You don't look okay."  The expression on her face changed.  Had he flinched at the comment?  "Don't worry.  I'm sure I look way worse.  I'm on my second shift.  Terence, that little fucker, quit, so now I'm pulling a double."

"You don't look that bad.  I mean, you look really good.  I mean..."  He started off towards his silver Acura.  The windows glimmering in the sun like a beacon of salvation.  "Look, I need to get going."

"Nikki."

He turned back to her.  "What?"

"Nikki.  That's my name.."

He smiled and nodded, with no idea what to say.

As he opened the driver's door, she said, "See you around, R.J."