It would have been thought that the first night in a strange place would be the worse, but as Sylvester lay in the mystic clutches of the darkened room, illuminated only by the sunshine nightlight that was plugged into the wall opposite his bed — or rather, crib — he found that the second night was far, far worse.

Sly could barely remember the night before. He had been simply exhausted, his adrenaline crashing, leaving his body feeling as though it had been through a boot camp drill, and his mind had been worked long and hard by questions that refused to be silenced, and relished at the chance to...