By James L. Rubart
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What was wrong with him? It was his handwriting. No one else had scrawled those numbers half an hour ago. He remembered jotting it down. It was someone he needed to call back. But the memory of whose number it was had disappeared. His face grew hot. " Cameron looked over at Brandon slumped in front of his computer, a pen whirling around his fingers like a minibaton on steroids. " Brandon glanced up at the clock on the wall of their production studio. "If we're going to get this vid finished, we gotta jam.
I can't afford to lose my brain, Dad. Cameron finished breaking down his camp and glanced at his watch. He could be back to Seattle and packed for a trip to Three Peaks by early afternoon. As he stuffed his tent into his pack, Jessie's stone around his neck fell out of his shirt. He dropped his pack and held the stone, staring at the markings on its surface. This was the key? All right, Jessie, if the wild goose is running, I'm ready to go on a chase. All he needed to do on Monday morning was convince Brandon he could handle an extra fifty hours for the next couple of weeks.
He fired up his car and headed south on I-5 toward Oregon. Wispy clouds moved across the sky, covering and uncovering a brilliant sun framed by a sapphire sky. That old sixties song nailed it: the bluest skies were in Seattle. He glanced at his dashboard temperature gauge. Seventy-seven degrees. A perfect summer day. He'd read that depressed people killed themselves more often on sunny days. They were supposed to feel better when the sun was out. When they didn't, any remaining hope died, and so did they.