It’s Tom on the other end of the line; he’s speaking—shouting, really, into the mouthpiece. But his voice is barely audible. He’s coming home? He’s moving to Rome? He’s shoveling loam? All seem like possible interpretations of the faint whisper worming its way into Dr. Slowo’s ear. Just then, the kettle on the stove begins its high-pitched squeal announcing the resurrection of Christ. The cat jumps down from her lap as she shuffles hurriedly to the kitchen, housecoat flapping behind her shapely legs. Off in the distance, a dog begins barking. “It’ll be good to have you home.” Or in Rome, or shoveling loam. Whatever it was, it was sure to be good. As long as Tom was going to be there. Wherever. No more trips to South America. No more mad escapades across the globe hunting down quasi-famous novelists. No more secret museums dedicated to pop singers from the ‘60s. And Professor X’s mad crusade had been halted by a single well-aimed bullet from a member of the ISA. All that was coming to an end. Or was it?