His hotel was a lot closer than Clara’s house. But distance wasn’t the only factor in his inviting Bren and Molly over to the five-star Grand Marias. By now, the city’s narrow roads and on-ramps heading out of from downtown had become clogged with a combination of rush-hour and informal mass-evacuation traffic. The news reports had everyone too scared to wait around for “what’s next.” The mayor had even declared a state of emergency, and for people to stay off the roads so as to allow room for emergency and defense vehicles. Sam didn’t want to be another asshole stuck in traffic, another car potentially blocking Clara’s ambulance ride to the hospital.

It was beginning to look more and more likely that she had been in one of those ambulances. Between Sam and Bren, there had been zero contact from her. No calls, texts, or emails. No posts on any of her social media profiles. There was no word, also, from her extended family. Bren had been on the phone the whole time, sitting cross-legged in bed by the nightstands, the phone becoming almost part of her face. She had called as many contacts as she knew, and then even asked them for further contacts to try, each time her ending the call in a big huff before several seconds of recovery. Sam could hear her motivation wax and wane, the speed of her fingers’ dialing getting slower with each futile call.

Molly, meanwhile, was sprawled at the foot of the bed. Bren had given her free reign over the movie rental screen, free reign to charge Sam with as many animated features as her little heart desired. But despite the candy and a new stuffed animal picked up in the lobby, despite all the shows she’d blown through, and having a queen-size bed all to herself to watch them from, she was absolutely, and quite understandably, fucked up. If anything, the movies helped Bren and Sam not hear her every little sad sniffle. Her groans, her restless rolling around. Sitting up, lying down, rolling on her side, and then the other side, kicking around, and then sometimes even breaking down into hysterics so that Bren would have to leave her call and come over and do her best to head off the meltdown with another of their long, rocking embraces.

Through all of this, Sam was stationed in front of his computer. Working with the guys back in Washington, he had requested and just recently received an edited video file containing all of the news footage from the attack. Someone had stitched together a highlight reel of all of it, from a dozen different media outlets, as well as the latest uploads of independent footage on YouTube and social media sites. He started with the independent stuff first, all of it raw and unfiltered. What he saw was goddamn horrific. Several videos were shot during the height of the attack, shaky footage of a swarming mass of people rushing away from the courthouse. In these clips he felt certain, several times, that he’d spotted Clara, her slow but steady, almost dignified jog alongside a mad rush of people. It was her gait that he picked up on, even her running gait, which he’d never actually seen before. The way her shoulders and arms moved. For clothing, he called Bren over to verify what looked to be her gray pantsuit. But still, he couldn’t get a clear shot of her face. The shots were either too blurry or shaky for that. But at least he felt closer to an answer. Closer to Clara.

He saw her. Probably. And at least, in that specific moment in time, she was alive and escaping.

So where the hell did she end up?

“Any luck with the hospitals?” Sam asked a momentarily phone-less Bren.

“I only just started,” she said, putting the receiver back to her ear. “I’ve completely given up on the friends and family.”

“How are they doing?”

“Her friends and family?”

“They okay?”

“Well, they feel better that we’re looking into it. But, yeah. They’re upset.”

“How are you doing?”

She shrugged, dialing another number from a phone book. “I’m upset.”

Sam glanced over to Molly. She had fallen asleep. And good for her. The girl had been through enough, and cried enough to be utterly exhausted. Sam could see it even before she passed out, that dull, lost look on her face. It was as if someone had slipped her a sedative.

Sam, on the other hand, was still riding a wave of adrenaline since the very beginning, since hearing about the news in the shower. How could things have gotten so fucked up so quickly? He’d gone from a having a nice, hot shower while thinking about Clara—and thinking about them together in the shower, to this.

At least they had something to work from now. He had, or so he thought, identified Clara in the courtyard. Which meant that she had either fled unscathed, or collapsed and had been carted off by one of the ambulances out front. He might have even walked by her ambulance in the very beginning.

He went back to his videos, the news broadcasts, speeding up the playback and scanning closely for any shots of ambulances loading. Across the room Bren was talking with someone at another hospital, asking about what kind of system had been set up for loved ones in case patients came in without ID. And then, in a suddenly agitated voice, asking why nothing had been set up yet. And then in a more apologetic tone, “Of course, I know, I know you’re busy. I know. It’s an emergency.”

The biggest hurdle in finding Clara, if she had ended up unconscious at a hospital, was that she very likely had no ID on her. And assuming how rushed and flooded the hospitals were, even before this crisis, it could be a long wait until all of the unconscious and ID-less survivors were accounted for.

There could be Jane Does, too. Bodies. Perhaps many of them. Clara couldn’t be a Jane Doe. Sam couldn’t let that happen.

Right at the same time Bren hung up the phone with her usual, “Fuck,” Sam caught it. His heart leapt with the chance, the possibility . . .

Yes! A quick flicker of Clara. Her face this time. He rewound and played the frames back slower this time, and he saw her.

He definitely saw her!

“Bren! We got it!”

It was a quick shot of Clara being loaded into an ambulance. And Sam would have jumped for joy, as he was planning, until it was clear that she was in trouble. Clara was moving, her hands flapping about slowly. But her eyes were closed, her face sickly green. Though at least, for that time being, she was alive. He’d hold off the celebration until he saw her in person, and when he saw that she was okay.

Bren had rushed to Sam’s side, hunching over his shoulder. “Oh, my God,” she said. “Oh, my God!”

Sam read out loud the name on the side of the ambulance. “First Response Ambulance Services. And I got an ambulance number. FR423. We got it!”

Bren was already backing away toward her phone. “You want me to call it in?”

“The hospital? Which one?”

“No,” she said, already flipping through the phone book. “First Response. I’ll call the company.”

Sam looked over at Molly again, who, despite the noise and the half celebration, was still in deep sleep. Her movie played on softly in the background. Sam hoped that when she woke up, they could give her some good news.

“Fuck,” Bren said. “They’re busy. I keep getting the signal.”

“Their switchboard must be getting fried.”

“Should I call the hospitals again? See if they have drop-off records with the ambulance number?”

Sam reached for his phone. “I doubt they’ll have the number.” He pulled up Tansy’s name in his contacts and sent the call. “Don’t worry. I know someone who can figure this out.”