Chapter Eight
AMY AWOKE WITH the taste of bacon on her lips, the feel of hard muscles beneath her palms, and the memory of a hot tongue stroking the inside of her mouth. Flutters spread through her belly, her nipples were peaked, and the flesh between her legs was throbbing and damp. Eyes closed, she stretched languidly, the sheets sliding erotically against her hot, sensitive skin. It felt sweet to awake to arousal rather than terror, to memories of pleasure rather than nightmares of pain.
Too bad she hadn’t maintained this languid sensuality while she’d been lost in Mac’s arms.
She frowned, going over the incident in her mind. She didn’t understand why she’d reacted so negatively the night before, yet not on Clay’s patio. She’d been trapped beneath Mac’s body by the barbecue, his hard, heavy weight pressing her down, and she’d felt just fine. Protected, even. There had been no urgency to flee, no terror. So why last night? What had been the difference?
Adrenaline? Rage? Fear?
She shook her head and sighed. The real question was: How was she going to face him?
With a soft groan, she stretched again. She’d have to summon the courage to apologize. She could hardly avoid him. Of course, after shifting their relationship from platonic to sexual, getting him all hot and hungry and then tearing herself from his arms and running away . . . he probably wasn’t in any hurry to see her again.
Not cool, Amy. The very definition of not cool.
“Mom?”
Amy bolted up in bed, her son’s voice ripping her from that hazy border between sleep and consciousness. Her gaze scanned the dark bedroom. “Brendan?”
“Benji’s sick.” Brendan’s worried voice drifted through the darkness.
Throwing back the sheet, she slid out of bed. The floor was icy against her bare feet, the air cold against the legs her sleep shorts exposed.
“What’s wrong with him?” Amy asked as she headed across the room toward the child-size gray blur lurking in the doorway.
“He’s hot and he’s crying.” Brendan stepped back from the doorway, allowing her to pass through.
Hot? Like a fever? Worry dug in. Benji was never sick. There was a running joke between her and his pediatrician—that her son bolted through each day in hyperdrive, moving so fast germs and viruses couldn’t keep up.
When Amy flipped on the light switch in the boys’ room, a whimper came from the bed to her left.
“Turn it off! It hurts.” Benji’s face turned toward her. Even from the doorway she could see the dull redness in his cheeks along with the drying tracks of tears.
“What hurts, baby?” She rushed to the bed and knelt on the floor beside him. His forehead felt blistering hot beneath her palm; so did his cheek.
“I’m hot.” His voice was fractious as he rolled his head away from her touch and hunched into the wall.
“I can see that.” She forced a calm tone even while anxiety took hold.
After seven years of never having a fever, why now? Had the isotope started to affect him? Or was the timing coincidental?
“Brendan?” She partially turned to scan her oldest son’s face. Unlike her youngest, he wasn’t flushed. No obvious signs of a fever. “How do you feel?”
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’m not hot.”
Brendan wasn’t sick, so maybe Benji’s sudden fever didn’t have anything to do with the isotope. She forced the worry and questions aside and concentrated on comforting her son.
“Brendan, get a washcloth and soak it with cold water.” She listened to his footsteps cross the room.
“You hang in there, baby. We’re going to make you feel better, okay?” She kept her voice soothing and her touch light. But even that was too much. He whimpered and jerked away from her hand.
She glanced at the clock beside Brendan’s bed. It was 5:00 a.m. Too early for doctor’s hours, but the base clinic was open twenty-four-seven. She scanned Benji’s flushed face. He was obviously running a fever, but she didn’t have a thermometer to check how high. Nor did she have any aspirin to bring it down. If it was a case of the flu, the clinic could treat him. If it was something else entirely, they’d reach out to Dr. Zapa regardless of how early it was.
She rose to her feet and stripped off the sheet and blanket he’d kicked aside.
“Brendan,” she yelled. “I’m taking Benji to the clinic.”
She backtracked to her room to shove her feet into her sneakers and debated about changing her clothes. She opted for speed rather than presentation. Her sleep shorts and top covered everything that needed covering.
“I have the washcloth,” Brendan said when she returned to Benji’s bed.
“Hang on to it.” She leaned over and slid her arms beneath Benji’s chunky frame. The muscles in her back protested as she straightened. He radiated heat like a small furnace, instantly warming her. The fear intensified, tightening her belly and skin. Exactly how high was his temperature?
“Drape the cloth across his forehead.”
Benji sighed as soon as the cloth touched his skin. His eyes fluttered closed. “Whatcha doing?”
“Taking you to the clinic.” She kept her tone soothing.
“I don’t wanna go.” His voice warped straight to querulous, and he thrashed weakly in her arms.
She tightened her hold and made shushing sounds. “They’ll make you feel better, Benj. They’ll take the heat away.”
“Uh-uh.” He thrashed again, the cranky tone giving way to a sob. “They’ll poke me with needles.”
Her heart squeezed. She couldn’t deny that assertion, since there was a good chance Dr. Zapa would want to draw blood. “But you’ll get another dinosaur bandage or maybe even a spaceship.”
“I don’t care. I don’t wanna go. I wanna stay here.” His voice started out low and whimpering before escalating to a shriek.
She almost dropped him when he started struggling in earnest. Benji was a solid sixty pounds and difficult to hold when he wasn’t cooperating.
“Do you want me to get Commander Mackenzie?” Brendan bent and caught the washcloth as it went flying.
Surprised, she shot a quick look at her oldest. Mackenzie? That was the first name that jumped into Brendan’s mind when they needed help. Not Zane or Rawls, but Mackenzie? When had that happened?
“We don’t need to bother the commander.” Amy injected confidence into her tone. “Between the two of us, we can take care of Benji just fine.”
Which was easier said than done when her youngest started writhing like a fish on a line.
“Benjamin Jonathan Chastain.” She sharpened her voice. “That’s quite enough. You have two choices. I can carry you, or you can walk. Either way you’re going to the clinic.”
Another sob was followed by a muttered, “I hate you.” But he stopped twisting.
I hate you.
She masked a flinch, her heart contracting again. Of course he didn’t mean it, wouldn’t even remember saying it, but if this sudden fever had anything to do with the isotope . . . Panic tried to break through. She forced it aside by focusing on the child in her arms.
The trip to the main corridor seemed to take forever with Benji’s burning weight getting heavier and heavier with each step. They lucked out when they reached the throughway. One of the base’s motorized carts was charging along the wall. She lifted Benji inside, recoiled the electrical charger, and pushed the button to start the vehicle. After a tight U-turn, they were on their way.
The sight of the clinic’s bright lights brought an avalanche of relief, an easing to the tension cinched around her chest. “We’re almost there, baby. Just hang on a little longer.”
His weak chuff of pain as she carried him from the cart through the sliding doors slashed at her heart. Was he hotter? Or had the stress and his hot body increased her own temperature?
She was still several steps from the receptionist’s counter when a woman dressed in green scrubs appeared in the doorway next to the desk. Her sharp gaze scanned Amy and then dropped to Benji’s nodding head.
“Fever?”
“Yes. I don’t have a thermometer or aspirin.” Or the slightest idea of how serious this fever was.
“Let’s get him into an exam room.” The woman turned and led the way down the hall.
Amy carefully settled Benji onto the exam table, wincing as he sobbed and curled into a tight ball.
“Doctor Pauli to room B.” After waiting a few seconds, the nurse pushed the button again, repeating the message, before crossing to Benji. “Hi there, Benji—isn’t it?” At her son’s truculent nod, the nurse smiled cheerfully. “Well, Benji, my name’s Danielle, and I’m going to take really good care of you.”
Amy retreated slightly to give the nurse room to work.
“When did the fever start?” Danielle asked softly. She crossed to the counter next to the exam table and opened a middle drawer. When she turned back, she had a digital thermometer in hand.
“He was fine when he went to bed at nine. I’m not sure when it started. Brendan woke me up, and I brought him right over,” Amy said tightly, watching Danielle slide the thermometer between his lips.
“Have you noticed any other symptoms?” the nurse asked as she scribbled on a sheet of paper attached to a clipboard. “Aches? Pains?”
“No, but I didn’t spend much time asking him questions. I brought him straight over.”
When the thermometer beeped, Danielle pulled it from Benji’s mouth.
“What was it?” Amy asked, leaning in for a closer look.
“One hundred three point nine,” the nurse said, neither her expression nor tone giving anything away.
Amy’s chest tightened. Was a temperature of 104 considered dangerously high? Her boys had rarely been sick and never with a fever this high. Could the isotope be causing it? If so, why wasn’t Brendan sick? But then maybe his temperature was elevated too, just not as high or as noticeable.
“Nurse?” Amy waited for the woman to look at her. “Could you take Brendan’s temperature too?”
The woman’s smile was understanding. “Certainly.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Brendan said, although he obediently opened his mouth and accepted the thermometer.
When the instrument beeped, and was removed with a 98.8 reading, Brendan shot her an I-told-you look.
Relieved that Brendan didn’t appear to be sick, Amy looked again at her youngest son. Benji still lay curled on the exam table, lethargically enduring the stethoscope and the blood pressure cuff. His lack of response was a clear indication of how sick he felt. His prior exams had been an exercise in patience followed by explicit threats.
This was not normal. Not for Benji. Her son threw himself through life with every fiber in his body. He didn’t just lie there and let people do things to him.
A sense of foreboding mushroomed through her until it choked out any sense of optimism. Benji’s life was in danger. She could sense it. Every maternal instinct she possessed screamed it.
There was something very, very wrong with her son.
The knock that struck Mac’s door was demanding, far too forceful to have come from Amy.
Thank you, Jesus.
Not that she had any interest in pounding on his door, anyway—at least not anytime soon . . . probably.
His scowl as he rose from his seat at the table had more to do with the shredded, aching muscles of his chest, shoulders, and arms than thoughts of Amy. A spasm ripped through his back. He froze, his breath catching as the muscles clenched into a charley horse.
Jesus fucking Christ!
He gritted his teeth and rode out the spasm. He could add his back to the litany of body parts he’d fucked over the day before that were returning the favor today. He had to stop letting those bastards he called friends goad him into paralyzing himself.
The next round of pounding was so thunderous, it shook the door.
What the fuck?
Someone was having a worse day than he was. Or, to be more accurate, someone was about to have a worse day.
Snarling, Mac stalked to the door, trying to keep his torso, shoulders, and back as still as possible. He flung it open to Wolf’s rigid, icy face. Startled, he backed up a pace. He’d never seen the big bastard look so aggressive before.
“You couldn’t find a punching bag to throw some of that hostility at?” Mac drawled with a raised eyebrow.
From the irritated glitter in Wolf’s black eyes, his visitor was considering using Mac as the punching bag. Normally Mac would be down with draining off some of the antagonism with their fists and boots, but not today. Fuck, he wasn’t even sure he could raise his arms high enough to land a punch.
Wolf visibly reined himself in. Crossing his arms, he planted his boots and rocked back on his heels. “I’ve things to do. I’ve no time to wait for your lazy ass to climb out of bed.”
Something had sure put a bug up the bastard’s ass. “Seems like you’re the one wasting time here.”
Wolf’s nostrils flared and the glitter in his eyes sprouted crystals of ice. The big bastard was beyond pissed . . . the question was why.
“The council has agreed to the mission you requested,” Wolf said through tight lips.
Mac straightened, only to freeze at the burn through his chest and shoulders. At least his back didn’t seize this time. “You’re green-lighting our op to grab James Link?”
Wolf’s nod was rigid, like he’d lost all flexibility in his neck.
“When?”
“Soon,” Wolf said grudgingly, swiping a palm down his face. “In light of Benji’s illness, the sooner the better.”
Mac froze again. Benji? Sick? “Wait. Back up. What’s wrong with Benji?”
Wolf cocked his head slightly, his gaze sharpening on Mac’s face. Some of the rigidity in his expression eased. “A fever. Amy brought him to the clinic this morning.”
“How bad’s the fever?”
The question was so fast and sharp it scorched the air between them. A wave of acid hit his gut. Goddamn it. The kid was just a baby. He didn’t deserve this.
And then the damnedest thing happened . . . Davey’s chubby face and bleached-blond scruff of hair burst into his mind. The image was crystal clear, as if he were looking at a photograph.
What the fuck?
He hadn’t thought of his brother in years. Too many to count. He’d locked that first quarter of his life behind mental walls of steel and concrete. Bolstered them periodically to make sure the memories didn’t break through.
“Dr. Zapa . . . brought . . . fever down.”
Mac forced his attention back to the conversation, relaxing as Wolf’s words registered. If the boy’s temperature was coming down, it might not be as bad as he’d feared. But, Christ, under the circumstances, Amy had to be going out of her mind.
“Do the docs know if this fever is a reaction to that damn isotope they were given?” Mac asked, rage unfurling. The fucking NRO would pay for what they’d done to Amy’s boys. He’d make Goddamn sure of it.
“Unknown. But likely.” Wolf’s voice was suddenly tired.
The rage thickened, clotting in his chest and restricting his lungs. Mac forced it down so he could think. They needed to grab Link and find out what he knew about the isotope and the NRO. And they needed to do it now.
“Set up a meeting with your CO for this afternoon,” he said, urgency hitting hard. He’d get hold of Zane and the boys ASAP . . . after he checked in with Amy.
Suddenly that kiss and the awkwardness that had followed didn’t mean shit. She had to be scared out of her fucking mind. There wasn’t much he could do to help, but at least she wouldn’t be alone. That had to count for something.
“Is Benji still at the clinic?”
“Far as I know,” Wolf said, a shadow of grimness filtering through his voice. He turned and walked away.
Mac followed him into the corridor. If Benji was there, Amy would be too. She wouldn’t leave her son.
By the time he reached the clinic, the muscles in his shoulders and chest had loosened enough that he could walk and swing his arms at the same time . . . without swearing.
The woman at the reception desk was blonde with a huge—and likely fake—rack. He ignored the flirty purse of her lips and faux wideness of her eyes.
“Benji Chastain?” he demanded. “He was admitted this morning.”
“He’s been moved to extended care.” She tilted her head, shooting him a seductive glance through her fluttering eyelashes. “Hang on a minute. Once Jannette gets back from break, I’ll show you where he is.”
He scowled at her. Nothing about the woman appealed to him. Nothing. Apparently he liked his women less flirtatious, much subtler, and sometimes terrified.
“No need. I’ll find him myself.” With that, he helped himself through the door and headed down the peach-colored hall.
“Hey. Hey. You can’t just barge in without an escort,” the blonde sputtered.
A moronic and incorrect statement, since he just had. He increased his pace in case someone tried to stop him. When he came to a fork in the hall, he stopped to glare down one path and then the other.
Luckily a mature woman in green scrubs appeared in the hall to the right.
She stopped in front of him. “You look lost. Where you headed?”
“Extended care. Benji Chastain?”
“Ah yes.” She smiled. “Stay to your left. Extended care is shaped like a giant horseshoe. He’s in the second cube to the left.” With another smile, she brushed past him.
Following her directions, he stayed to the left. He stopped when he entered the extended care wing. Damn if the room wasn’t exactly as the woman had described—a giant horseshoe with—he stopped to count—twenty cubicles clinging to the outside walls. The patient stalls were ten by ten and separated by nubby gray eight-foot walls. A fabric curtain across the front of each unit was someone’s bright idea of privacy.
The curtain for the second cubicle was closed. As Mac started toward it, he was surprised how quiet his boots were on the tile floor. The slightly spongy flooring appeared to absorb the sound of his feet. He peeked around the gap in the curtain. If Amy or the boy was sleeping, he didn’t want to wake them up.
Benji was curled on his side, sound asleep. A standing fan oscillated at the foot of his bed, blowing air over him. A basin of water and a wash rag sat on the cart next to the headboard. Amy looked up from her armchair next to the bed, relief flashing across her face when she saw him. Yeah, he’d called it.
The woman needed someone on her side.
He pushed the curtain ajar just enough to slip through, relieved when Benji didn’t stir.
“Hey.” He kept his voice to a low rumble. “How’s he doing?”
“His temperature’s come down, thanks to the fan and the cold-water baths. If it goes back up, they said they’d use the cooling blanket on him. But he’s still feeling horrible. Mostly sleeping.” Her haunted eyes turned toward her son.
Mac shifted uncomfortably. Now that the obligatory “How ya doing?” or, in this case, “How’s he doing?” was all used up, he had no idea what to say.
Fuck, he was a wuss at this.
His gaze dropped to the computer on her lap, and he winged it. “Where’d you get the laptop?”
The tension in her shoulders vanished, and humor softened the exhaustion in her eyes. “I followed your lead and asked for it.”
It took an instant to trace the comment back to the bacon and eggs. When it finally registered, he released a soft bark of laughter. “Hell, if I’d known it worked on electronics, I’d have picked one up days ago.” He glanced around the cubicle, his gaze lingering on the second armchair. “How’s Brendan?”
“He seems to be fine. No temperature or other signs of sickness. He’s at the cafeteria getting some lunch.” She scooted her chair around to make room for him. “Do you want to sit down?”
He didn’t. He was too damn antsy for that. Instead he walked to the bed. Benji was sleeping with his face scrunched and his fists clenched, every muscle in his slight frame tense. Was that normal? Or part of what ailed him? “Do the docs think the isotope is affecting him?”
Amy shook her head. “They don’t know for sure, but they suspect it. They said . . .” Her voice bobbled, and she stopped long enough to clear it. “They said that Brendan’s blood work hasn’t changed. But Benji . . . the compound is proliferating through Benji’s cells. It’s spreading. They’re running more tests.”
She shook her head, and the hazel eyes that glimmered off his were bright with fear.
Son of a fucking bitch.
He almost reached for her hand but caught himself in time. He had no clue how she’d react to his touch, even if it was meant in support and comfort. His words would have to do.
“The council’s approved the op to snatch Link. We’ll grab him. We’ll find out what was injected into Benji and Brendan. We’ll figure out a way to reverse it.”
Assuming the isotope came from Dynamic Solutions, and assuming James Link had anything to do with its development, and hell—assuming they could even get close enough to grab Link.
Some of the tension left her face, and she eased her death grip on the armrest of her chair. “When do you move on him?”
Her gaze drifted to the bed, and Mac knew she was thinking they needed to move fast. As fast as possible. Benji’s life could depend on it.
“We’re working up a plan now. We go to Shadow Command this afternoon.”
“Okay.” Amy’s voice calmed, her eyes sharpening. “So you need more information on Link, his residences?”
Such research would be right up her alley. She must have run similar searches on her targets back when she’d been in the FBI.
“That would be helpful.” He’d offered her the perfect distraction. She already looked less stressed.
Which reminded him of the terror on her face in the aftermath of that kiss. Should he bring that up? Assure her it would never happen again? Before he had a chance to broach the subject, Amy turned the laptop until the screen was facing his way.
“I’ve already started researching Link, and I found something interesting.” She hit a key. A collage of pictures popped up on the screen. All were of the same two men. One was a tall, lean man with dark hair, and the other was even taller but heavier with no hair.
Amy pointed to the one with dark-brown hair. “That’s Link on the left and Leonard Embray, Dynamic Solutions’ founder and CEO, on the right. These photos were taken between one and ten years ago. Look at their body language. The way they laugh together. Lean into each other. They even clasp hands in a couple of them. I think they were close friends. Like Obama-and–Joe Biden close.”
Mac took a seat and leaned in for a closer look. She was right. The pictures did remind him of all the memes he’d seen through the years of Obama and Biden.
“They have known each other since high school. Went to the same college. Once Dynamic Solutions took off, James Link was the first person Leonard Embray brought on board.” She narrowed her eyes at the screen. “But as of six months ago, Embray disappeared. There are no photos or public accounts of him since last March. He seems to have vanished. In fact, Link has taken over numerous obligations that Embray handled in the past.”
She paused to tap another key on the keyboard, and another picture popped up. “Take a look at this. It was taken about six months ago, around when Embray disappeared.” A picture of Link wearing what was obviously a designer suit filled the screen. She moved her finger on the mouse pad and clicked. “This one was taken last week.”
The same man in a similar suit, but the difference was instantly discernable. “He’s lost weight.”
And a lot of it. Hell, he looked like a fucking scarecrow.
“Exactly,” Amy said as she turned the screen back toward herself. “But it’s not just his face and not just the weight. He looks terrible. Like he isn’t sleeping.”
Mac glanced at her. She could have been describing her husband’s appearance all those months ago, before the poor bastard had lost his life to a knife blade in an airport closet.
“The timing of the weight loss is suspicious, don’t you think? I wonder if it’s connected to Embray’s disappearance. I wonder if Link was somehow involved.” She shrugged. “I know it doesn’t make a difference when it comes to grabbing him, but if he is feeling guilty, maybe you can use that somehow.”
Her husband’s appearance had certainly been caused by guilt. Well, that and terror for the safety of his family. But then, John Chastain had been a good man. An honorable one. Sure, he’d made a couple of nasty mistakes when it came to his cooperation with the NRO. But, hell, the guy had been dealt a crummy hand. Damned if he did . . . damned if he didn’t. He’d stepped over the line to give his family the strongest probability of survival. He hadn’t taken that step by choice.
Mac looked at Amy and then at the child in the bed next to him. He’d have done the same damn thing.
But that didn’t mean Link had the same sense of morality.
“Luckily we won’t need to rely on a guilty conscience to get him to talk,” Mac said, catching Amy’s gaze. “Once we get him back here, he’ll tell us everything we need to know.”
Their eyes locked, and bam, the memory of that kiss and its aftermath flared between them. Just like that, the awkwardness was back.
Mac stiffened in frustration. Enough already. They needed to exorcise that damn kiss and get back to basics. “Look, about yesterday morning . . .” Mac squared his shoulders and leaned forward in his chair, his hands balled into one big fist. “I don’t have any expectations, if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t need to fear that things will progress further, okay?”
A long, vibrating silence fell. She finally stirred but avoided his gaze by staring at the ground.
“What if I want them to?” she asked, her voice soft.
He froze. She was still avoiding eye contact. He must have misunderstood her words. “What?”
Her face lifted, and this time her eyes locked on his face. “What if I want things to progress further? What if I want to revisit that kiss?”
“Uh—” His mouth remained wide open, but no further words escaped.
She closed the laptop and stretched to put it on the rolling cart in the corner of the room, then scooted her chair forward until they were sitting knee to knee.
“I’m sorry I ran. But it wasn’t because of you. You know that, right?” She leaned forward and wrapped her hands around his fist. “I liked the kiss, Mac. I enjoyed it.” Her gaze shifted slightly, as though she’d almost looked away. “At least until the nightmare interfered. I wasn’t running from you. I was running from the memories.”
He turned her hands over and squeezed. “I get that. I do. As long as you know I’d cut off my”—he glanced at Benji’s sleeping face and frowned—“junk before I’d ever hurt you.”
She squeezed his hands back. “I know that.”
The glazed terror and horror that had been stamped across her face ran through his mind. He shook his head. “Maybe you’re not ready for this step yet.”
She clutched his hands again. “Just hear me out, okay?”
Frowning, he nodded slightly.
“They stole something vital from me in that house. Something I never thought I’d get back. Something I want back.”
Rage flushed his muscles. She meant when those bastards had kidnapped and raped her. Too bad Tattoo was dead. The motherfucker deserved so much worse than the clean, easy death Amy had dealt.
“That kiss yesterday? It was the first time I’ve felt pleasure in months. The first time I’ve felt sexual attraction. The first time I’ve felt alive. And damn it—I don’t want them to steal that from me too. I want those feelings back.”
Okay . . . where exactly was she going with this? He stirred uneasily.
She must have sensed his discomfort because she offered a lopsided smile. “Relax, Mac, I’m not asking for a commitment.”
Okay?
“What are you asking for?” The million-dollar question.
“I don’t know. More kisses, maybe a one-night stand . . . or two . . . or three.”
He stared at her in complete astonishment. A one-night stand. Did the woman know herself at all? “Yeah, I think you need to rethink this.”
“I dreamed about you last night.” She shot a quick look at Benji and dropped her voice. “Erotic, sweaty dreams. And the nightmare didn’t invade the dreams or ruin the pleasure.”
Her expression was pure challenge.
Mac backtracked, cleared his suddenly thick throat. “Have you talked this out with anyone? Maybe you should—”
“I have eyes, Mac, and good instincts. I know you’re attracted to me.”
“That’s not the point. The point—”
“I know what the point is.” Her voice started to rise. She stopped talking and eyed the hospital bed again. “They can’t win, Mac. Not when it comes to my kids. Not when it comes to my body. Not when it comes to my mind. I won’t let them.” The hazel eyes that held his were full of determination. “I won’t let them steal my sexuality. I won’t.”
It was a fucking miracle the nurse drew back the curtain at her last word because he had absolutely no clue what to say. No fucking clue.
“Benji needs another temperature check and dose of medicine,” the nurse said with a cheerful smile.
Mac shot to his feet, mumbled an excuse, and fled the cubicle, for the first time in his life grateful for a nurse’s take-charge bedside manner.