Page 2 of The Specialist

She sounded impatient. “Of course, I’m all right. I’m at work. What is it? Why are you calling?”

When I didn’t respond, she dropped her voice. “Egan? What’s wrong?”

I lifted my head, brushing away the dampness under my eyes. “I had a dream. I had to check on you.”

“I’m fine. What was the dream about?”

“You—you were in trouble, and I could not get to you,” was all I could say. I couldn’t tell her the truth.

Her voice softened more. “It was just a dream. I’m fine,” she assured me.

“I will pick you up in the morning.”

“Egan, I have my car.”

“Breakfast, then. I will cook for you.”

“Waffles?” she asked teasingly.

“Yes. And decent coffee.”

“Dark water, you mean.”

It was our thing. As a doctor, Sofia was used to the tar they drank in the on-call room. I made good coffee that tasted the way it should, rich and full—not like burned rubber. She teased me all the time. I needed her humor right now.

“You love it, woman.”

“Good God, stop with the caveman shit, Egan. My love, woman,” she snorted. “You know it drives me crazy. I have told you a hundred times, we are friends. Just friends.”

She was wrong there, but I didn’t argue with her.

“I will be waiting.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Try to go back to sleep. Can you do that?” she asked, a note of worry in her voice.

I smiled at the sound of it. Regardless of what she claimed, she cared.

And soon, I would make her admit to it.

“Yes. I will see you shortly.”

I hung up, looking around my bedroom. I had lied—I doubted I would go back to sleep now. The dream had been so real. I had felt the wires under my fingers. Smelled the decay of the building. Felt the almost sexual pull of knowing the rubble my work would produce. It was always a rush.

I had also felt the terror. Hers and mine. Watched helplessly as she died.

I shook my head, reminding myself it was nothing but a dream. One I didn’t understand, but that was all it was.

I ignored the sudden flash of memory of my grandmother back in the old country, who used to dream of things that made no sense. She would pick apart a dream and warn you of things to come. People came from miles around to seek her opinion. She always said I had the same talent. She used to boast to people, because we shared the same birth date, that I had gotten that “gift” from her. She looked forward to watching it develop. She died before we left Romania.

Yet…I had heard her soft voice in my dream.

Hadn’t I?

I stood, dismissing the thoughts. That was all folklore and bullshit, and I had no idea why I’d suddenly remembered it. She had been a sweet old lady who liked to make up stories to entertain herself. I hadn’t thought about it in years. I didn’t believe her then, and I didn’t believe her now.

I lived in the real world. And the mumblings and warnings of my late grandmother had no place here.

I refused to admit it was her voice I had heard in my dream.