“Because it’s my job to find what frightens people and lay it to rest.”

Pratt strokes his sideburns and wipes his stubbled chin and doesn’t know that the base of his neck is damp enough that I can taste it, like the fog before it sweeps in. Yet he’s not really sweating; he isn’t nervous at all, I think, but curious and alert, and that dampness is part of him. It’s the kind of stickiness a fly might have on the tip of