“I told you,” said Wendy, sitting across from Fiona at the break-room table. “It’s still happening and no one knows what the hell’s going on.”

Fiona was attempting to concentrate on Wendy’s descriptions of the various bugs and glitches that were increasingly hampering hospital operations. But she couldn’t shake the thought of Jasper—if that even was Jasper and not some doppelganger named Rick—lying in bed just a few floors above her.

But it was him, wasn’t it? They had even made eye contact. She was sure they had.

Or she could be losing her mind. That was always possible.

“It’s starting to get a little scary,” said Wendy. “Has Dr. Wahl talked to you about it?”

“About . . . the glitches?” Fiona tried to ask as if she knew what the hell Wendy was talking about. The glitches. But in truth, she hadn’t even noticed them.

Wendy, in contrast, was looking and sounding as if she’d been describing a premonition for the end of the world. “It’s starting to affect higher priority functions.”

Fiona wasn’t sure what to say, except for an insightful and heartfelt “Uh-oh.” Maybe she should start paying attention. Get some fling from her past off her mind.

“What if they start having trouble with the ventilators?” asked Wendy, her eyes widening.

“Well, aren’t those, like, separated from . . . ?” She didn’t even know how to ask the question. But in her mind somewhere she was sure, somehow, that life-or-death functions like ventilators at least had some safeguards built in. Just like backup generators for when the power goes out.

“It’s crazy,” said Wendy, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Could it be from power surges or something? I thought we have backups.”

“Oh, it’s something more than power surges,” Wendy said. She fiddled with her necklace, glancing back at the break room’s door.

It was odd to see the veteran nurse so rattled. It stuck with Fiona on her return to work, most notably when she walked by the intensive care units where the beeping sounds of respirators and pressurized air wafted out into the hallway. It sounded so artificial and fragile. The sounds of life hanging in the balance.

Whether or not Wendy’s concerns were valid, Fiona was glad that her sister wasn’t at Lambert Memorial. On top of everything else, she’d lose her mind if she had to worry about every little rumor, or glitch, or brownout, or something as abstract as a computer virus snuffing out her life.

She tried putting it out of her mind, the possibilities, the possible tragedies. But when she turned a corner, she met one head-on.

A doctor had left one of the rooms and was followed by an angry mob of people. Family members, perhaps. Their backs were turned, walking after the doctor, but Fiona could hear the crying in their voices. It must have been some bad news. A doctor’s hardest assignment.

Today, for this doctor, the assignment appeared particularly difficult.

“You did something!” cried a grieving middle-aged woman, clawing at the doctor’s back.

When he turned around, Fiona’s first instinct was to hide, to dash away from the dead eyes of Dr. Wahl.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said in a businesslike tone, like a car insurance agent lamenting a write-off between bites of a sandwich.

“You’re sorry?”

“You did something,” another man said, accusing, pointing a finger.

“I’m sorry,” said Dr Wahl.

Fiona slowed her walk to a dead stop. No need to get too close.

“What happened?” asked the woman. “What happened!?”

“You killed him!” someone else cried.

“I’m so terribly sorry for your loss,” said the doctor. “I . . . I tried everything I—”

“You did something to the machine and then it turned off. So what did you do?”

“I did not.” Dr. Wahl’s face was turning red now.

“We’re going to get a lawyer, and then we’ll—”

“You did something with the machine, I saw you!”

It seemed like the appropriate time for Fiona to duck into a nearby room and escape before he saw her. She checked the bed in the room. It was empty, so she returned to the doorway, clinging to the side and listening to the scuffle that had broken out. She peeked her head out to see several nurses and doctors jumping in to separate the two parties. It was a horrible scene, but Fiona stayed put. She didn’t feel particularly loyal toward Dr. Wahl right now.

And maybe he did screw something up.

“Do we need security?” asked a nervous-sounding nurse. “Do we need security?”

“Let them go,” said Dr. Wahl, attempting to peel off several grieving family members.

“Get off me!”

“Let them go, it’s fine.”

The anger had subsided into quiet anguish, the family now sobbing wretchedly and collapsing in on each other like a busted, wind-ruined tent.

* * *

Fiona returned to work with the afternoon’s upsetting events replaying itself in the back of her mind—especially because there had been no closure. Dr. Wahl had shooed everyone away without explaining what had happened. Fiona could already imagine Wendy talking about more technical glitches, her concern undoubtedly growing to a fevered pitch after this last episode. It would be best to avoid Wendy and Dr. Wahl for the time being.

And it would be best to catch up on her rounds.

She had blood work for the increasingly cantankerous Mr. Welsh. Vitals for the two coma patients. A glucose check for Marva. And then there was the infamous room 314. By the time she got around to that room, she had almost forgotten who was supposed to be waiting there for her.

She entered 314 cautiously, half frightened of what she’d find.

This time it was an empty bed. Though it had been made up with a rigid, calculated neatness. It was better work than any nurse she’d ever seen. On the nightstand were several books. There was some clothing folded over the back of a chair. The last clothing of his that she’d remembered was a military jacket and cargo pants strewn across her apartment floor. This time, at the hospital, it was the trappings of a civilian. A black hooded sweatshirt and blue jeans. And this time they were stored away with much more care, folded neatly at the creases. She looked onto the table, inspecting the book spines. Hardcovers. Nonfiction about oil markets and energy geopolitics. Not exactly the light reading that awaited Fiona on her breaks. But, as she recalled, he was not exactly the most lighthearted guy. It was, perhaps, that brooding face of his that had first caught her attention, those serious if not mournful eyes that had pulled her in and kept her there. Kept her face inches away from his in the half light of her apartment. And then her lips on his.

But what was it that kept him here at Lambert Memorial Hospital?

Was he checking up on her?

And if so, was it of his own volition, some crazy desperate attempt to track her down and rekindle something? Or had he become some sort of undercover agent, spying on her on the hospital’s behalf?

Maybe it was much simpler than that. Maybe he was just legitimately hurt. But then why was he out of bed already? She checked his chart. His latest scan results weren’t even back yet. She hoped the imaging equipment wasn’t affected by the glitches, too. That would make her day even worse.

Grimacing at the thought, Fiona turned to leave, and there he was, leaning against the frame of the doorway with a thoroughly satisfied grin.

“Snooping through my things?” he asked.

She was caught. She laughed. “Yeah, a little bit.”

“I went out looking for you.”

“Oh,” she said. Nothing made sense. How did he know she worked there?

“I saw you,” he said with a grin. “You were watching me sleep.”

Caught again.

Part of her wanted to die in embarrassment. But then her brain caught up with her emotions. She was looking at Jasper, in person. He was in front of her. He was real. And suddenly, life seemed a little more worth living.

“So what did you need?” she asked, her voice smoothing out, a calmness returning. “A bed pan? Someone to fluff your pillow?”

He began moving into the room, limping slightly.

“A cane?” Fiona asked.

“No, it’s all good. I’m just a little stiff.”

She watched him shuffle over to her like it was a dream, the imagery taking her back five years. “What happened to you?” She wanted to know what had happened in those five years, what he’d done, and where, and with whom. She wanted to know everything about where his story had gone after her.

“You mean, my arm?” he asked innocently.

“Yes,” she said, settling for the immediate details. Maybe it was best to start slow. “Your arm.”

“Oh, just a little accident.”

“I know,” she said, inspecting his wrist as he approached, taking it gently into her hand. “I asked what happened.”

“Car accident,” he said, his voice cool, almost detached. Yeah, right.

The natural next move would be to slide her hand further up his arm, feeling him, pulling his body and his hips against hers. It was the logical continuation of something that had started five years ago. But she settled instead for a quick and professional examination, something any proper nurse would do.

“I wasn’t sure if it was you at first.” His voice sounded different. It was so close now. Softer. Lower in pitch.

“Me neither,” she said, letting go of his hand.

“I thought it was my medication or something.” He sat on the bed with a sight wince. “But I had a feeling you worked here.” He was smiling again. “You look good.”

“So do you,” said Fiona, “Aside from your shoulder.”

“Nah, it’s nothing.”

“So, Rick, what’s with the fake name?”

“Rick Delaney?”

“Are you on some kind of spy mission?” She figured she’d best just come right out with it and ask. There could be no way that he was really—

“Yeah,” he said. “Sort of.”

“Spying on me?”

He looked confused about that, cocking his head to the side. “What? Why?” He was laughing now, patting the bed next to him for her to sit.

She ignored his request. With as closely as she was being watched, it probably wouldn’t be such a good idea to get overly familiar with the patients.

“I’m just here to check over some things, security issues, before uh . . . before an important guest arrives.”

“Who? Someone famous?”

He smiled at her. But it was the kind of smile one receives upon asking a dumb question.

“I mean . . .” damn it, she was sputtering. “Well, who is it?”

“Prince Saif,” he said, waiting for some kind of reaction to the name. But there was none. “From the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”

“So you’re like a security guard doing the advance work?”

“Mostly on a technological, cybersecurity level. There will be actual Saudi guards here for the more conventional type of protection.”

Fiona let the words sink in, thinking about all the problems that Wendy had been talking about.

“What’s wrong” he asked.

“Have you been staging any drills or anything?”

“Drills?”

“There’s been some tech issues in the last few days.”

“I’m starting to notice.”

She thought of that unfortunate family two floors below, the wailing, and the blaming. Then she heard a familiar scuffling of footsteps out in the hallway, the telltale sign of Wendy’s approach. Fiona walked to his chart, to read it over for the millionth time. Everything was normal. She was busy. Working.

“Fiona?” said Jasper. “What kind of issues?”

Wendy was in the room now. Fiona could feel it.

“Excuse me.” The voice shot into the room. “Fiona, can you give me a hand over at ICU when you got a chance?”

ICU? Again? Fiona spun around to meet her gaze. “Is it urgent?”

“No. I said when you’ve got a chance.”

It was a relief, Fiona not being required to help tear away a raging family member from one of the doctors after life support had mysteriously switched off. Another relief was Wendy’s swift departure from the doorway. Fiona turned back to Jasper with a shrug. “I thought we had another emergency in ICU. I think we lost a patient today because of some kind of technical problem.”

Despite his injures, he seemed to stiffen up straight. His head perked with attention. “Can you take me to the room?”

“Well, I can show you which room it is. But . . .”

“You don’t have to go in there with me.”

“What kind of clearance do you have?” asked Fiona. “What kind of permission? Do you know Dr. Wahl?”

“No, but I know Clarence Mitchell.”

The name sounded familiar to Fiona. But . . .

“He’s the director of the hospital,” Jasper said, rounding out the mystery. “So can you show me?”

“Now?”

“Aren’t you headed that way?”

“Yeah . . . but just tell me one thing. Honestly.”

“What?”

“Are those injuries for real?”

“What, these?” He held out his arm, seemingly in no rush to answer.

“Come on,” she said. “I just want to know if I actually have to do any work for you.”

For some reason, that made him smile.