Over the Edge [antikvár]

It was my first middle-of-the-night crisis call in three years.A thousand days out of practice, and there I was, bolt, upright in the darkness, clutching the receiver with sleep-slowed fingers, queasy and drowsy but ready for action, my voice soothingly professional even as my brain struggled for a toehold in its climb toward consciousness.Slipping into the old role with autonomic ease.There was a stirring from the other side of the bed. The phone had wrenched Robin from sleep, too. A blade of lace-filtered starlight striped her face, the perfect features restfully blank.'Who is it, Alex.i^''The service.''What's the matter?''I'm not sure. Go back to sleep, hon, I'll take it in the library.'She looked at me questioningly, then rolled away in a swaddle of covers. I threw on a robe and left the bedroom. After switching on the lights and wincing at the glare, I found paper and pencil and picked up the receiver.'I'm back.''This one sounds like a real emergency. Doctor. He's breathing real hard and not making much sense. I had to1