and I’ve been dodging it ever since, bluebirds and unwanted wildflowers aside. Sloane knows that, just like she knows that I’ll never respond in kind. It wouldn’t be fair.
“What makes you think this is even going to work?”
“It’s going to work because we’re dealing with a pathogenic Sleeping Beauty this time. The story’s trying to buck us off its trail and keep us from disrupting the narrative. That’s fine, because if it’s a disease, it falls under the AT Index for ‘vermin,’ and if the problem is vermin, we can resolve the story with another story.”
“So you want Sloane to find you a two-eighty?” Andy shook his head. “I know you don’t like the four-tens, but don’t you think this is reaching a little?”
“It’s reaching, sure, but Henrietta’s got the right idea,” said Jeff abruptly. We all turned to look at him. Our resident archivist had his copy of the Index open, propped on one arm, his finger anchored midway down the two-eighty column. He always had a paper Index in the van: the story could change computer readouts if it got enough momentum, but there’s nothing that changes a printed copy of the Aarne-Thompson Index. “There’s a reported variation here where the two-eighty killed the village that refused to pay him by piping the Black Death into their houses while they slept. Pipers can control disease. The narrative supports it.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said, firmly. “We’re going to give it a try. Sloane, you’re our fairy tale detector. Go do your job. Find me a Pied Piper.”
“I fucking hate you sometimes,” she snarled, and turned to stalk away.
Andy waited until she was out of earshot before he asked, “Do you honestly think this is going to work?”
“I have no fucking clue,” I replied. “But that’s not the important question here, is it?”
“What is?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Can you think of anything better?”
Andy was silent.
I nodded. “I thought not,” I said. “Come on. Let’s get back to the van. The coffee should be ready by now.”
#
The containment team estimated that the hospital would be able to hold our Sleeping Beauty—identified by the research crew back at headquarters as Alicia Connors, age seventeen, daughter of a fairly prominent local family that had also been reported as inexplicably asleep—for approximately six hours before the contagion started to spread. They were close. The people nearest the hospital began slumping gently over approximately five-and-a-half hours after our four-ten went inside, marking the first cases outside the hospital walls.
“If Sloane’s not back soon, we’re going to need to look at pulling our men back,” said Jeff, watching as Andy continued his attempts at crowd control. “We can’t afford to have an entire team fall asleep for a hundred years. The strain on personnel would be unbelievable.”
“She’ll be here,” I said. “God, I hate Sleeping Beauties.” Why that story, out of all the possible stories, should have the sort of staying power it does is beyond me. Centuries of helpless girls, half of them rotting away years before their Prince could come. It makes me sick.
“I know,” said Jeff. “Look, Henry—”
Whatever platitude he’d been preparing about hating the story, not the subject, was cut off as Sloane came storming back up the street, managing to stomp at a pace most people can’t manage when running. She was hauling a frail-looking slip of a teenage girl along by one arm. The girl was clutching a concert flute in one hand, and she looked distinctly alarmed. I couldn’t blame her. Sloane is distinctly alarming.
“Here,” announced Sloane, shoving the girl in our direction. “Demi Santos. She’s a music major at the community college. I followed the pigeons. You explain what’s happening to her. I’m going to go twist the heads off some kittens.” She spun on her heel and went stalking off again.
The brusquely identified Ms. Santos shot us an alarmed look. Jeff, trying to be helpful, said encouragingly, “Don’t worry. Sloane very rarely twists the head off anything.”
Demi Santos, now officially convinced that she’d been abducted by crazy people, burst into tears.
“Jeff, handle her,” I snapped. “Sloane!” I stalked after my runaway team member, who didn’t stop, slow down, or turn to look at me. “Sloane!”
“Fuck you, princess,” she said, holding up a hand and once again showing me her middle finger. “I did what you asked. Now go save the day like a good little hero while I slink off like a good little villain.” Her last word dripped with venom. I found myself wanting to