“Regular,” I say quickly, before Army Surplus Psycho can pipe up. I’ve never eaten anything perched on my knees before, and just now I’d rather not look as awkward as I feel. After I tell the kid that I’ve never eaten sushi, he orders for us, which does nothing to help me shake the feeling of disorientation. It’s like I’m trapped in one of those omniscient dreams where you just watch yourself do stupid shit, yelling at yourself about how stupid it is, and your dream-self just keeps doing what it’s doing anyway.

The kid across the table is smiling like an idiot. “Saw you with Carmel Jones today,” he says. “You don’t waste any time.”

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Just to help.”

“I don’t need any help.”

“You already had it.” He hunkers lower as the food arrives, two plates of circular mystery, one deep fried and the other covered in small orange dots. “Try some,” he says.

“What is it?”

“Philadelphia roll.”

I eye the plate skeptically. “What’s that orange stuff?”

“Cod roe.”

“What the hell is cod roe?”

“Cod eggs.”

“No thanks.” I’m so glad there’s a McDonald’s across the street. Fish eggs. Who the hell is this kid?

“I’m Thomas Sabin.”

“Stop doing that.”

“Sorry.” He grins. “It’s just that you’re so easy sometimes. I know it’s rude. And seriously, I can’t do it all the time.” He stuffs an entire circle of fish egg–encrusted raw fish into his mouth. I try not to inhale while he chews. “But I have helped you already. The Trojan Army, remember? When those guys came up behind you today. Who do you think sent that to you? I gave you the heads-up. You’re welcome.”

The Trojan Army. That’s what I thought when Mike and Co. walked up behind me at lunch. But now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I’d thought that. The only view I’d had of them had been out of the corner of my eye. The Trojan Army. The kid had put the thought in my head so smoothly, like a note dropped onto the floor in a conspicuous place.

Now he’s going on about how it isn’t easy to send things like that, how it had given him a bit of a nosebleed to do it. He sounds like he thinks he’s my own little guardian angel or something.

“What should I be thanking you for? Being witty? You put your personal judgment into my head. Now I have to go around wondering if I thought those guys were douche bags because I really thought so, or just because you thought so first.”

“Trust me, you’d agree. And you really shouldn’t be talking to Carmel Jones. At least, not yet. She just broke up with Mike the Meathead Andover last week. And he’s been known to hit people with his car just for ogling her while she’s in the passenger seat.”

I don’t like this kid. He’s presumptuous. And yet, he’s earnest and well-meaning, which softens me a little. If he’s listening to what I’m thinking, I’m going to slash his tires.

“I don’t need your help,” I say. I wish I didn’t have to watch him eat anymore. But the fried stuff doesn’t look too bad, and it kind of smells okay.

“I think you do. You’ve noticed I’m a little bit strange. You moved here what, seventeen days ago?”

I nod numbly. It was seventeen days ago exactly that we pulled into Thunder Bay.

“I thought so. For the past seventeen days, I’ve had the worst psychic headache of my life. The kind that actually throbs and makes a home behind my left eye. Makes everything smell like salt. It’s only now that we’re talking that it’s going away.” He wipes his mouth, gets serious all of a sudden. “It’s hard to believe, but you’ve got to. I only get these headaches when something bad is going to happen. And it’s never been this bad before.”

I lean back and sigh. “Just what do you think you’re going to help me with? Who do you think I am?” Sure, I think I know the answers to these questions already, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check. And besides, I feel at a complete disadvantage, totally off my game. I’d feel better if I could stop this infernal interior monologue. Maybe I should just vocalize everything. Or constantly think in images: kitten playing with ball of yarn, hot-dog vendor on street corner, hot-dog vendor holding kitten.

Thomas wipes the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “That’s a nifty piece of hardware you’ve got in your bag there,” he says. “Old Mrs. Dead-Eyes seemed pretty impressed by it.” He snaps his chopsticks together and picks up a piece of the deep-fried stuff, then shoves it into his mouth. As he chews, he talks, and I wish he wouldn’t. “So I’d say you’re some kind of ghost-slayer. And I know you’re here for Anna.”