I closed my eyes and ran through my plan step by step. Distraction. Misdirection. Movement. Disappearance.
A familiar calm settled over me—the pre-operation stillness that had kept me alive in places where they measured the mistakes in body counts. I'd been running contingency plans since I was old enough to understand that staying in one place too long meant dying.
My plan crystallized. Simple. Clean. Effective. It was just another extraction. Another tactical problem with variables to manage and solutions to implement.
Now, I had to execute it without thinking about the man who'd pulled me from the wreckage and stood guard at my door like he gave a damn whether I lived or died.
McCabe returned, quiet as before. He paused at the threshold, one foot inside the room. His posture was different from the men I'd learned to fear. No aggressive stance or territorial energy.
His hands hung loose at his sides. He didn't look confused or clinical. He looked... tethered. It was as if seeing me made something in him settle, and walking away would cost him something.
My eyes opened fully, betraying me. He didn't flinch. Didn't step back or call for a nurse. Just stood there, taking in the sightof me, seeing past the hospital gown and bandages and careful blankness I kept on my face.
I stared back. When was the last time someone had looked at me without wanting something in return? For thirty seconds, I forgot I was supposed to be nobody.
He turned and walked away, footsteps retreating down the hallway toward whatever everyday life awaited him outside these walls. He left behind an irrational wish that he'd stayed a little longer, even without words passing between us.
I waited until Patricia made her next round—11:23 PM, precise and efficient. I was ready when she appeared in my doorway with her tablet and practiced smile.
"How are we feeling tonight, Mr. Doe?" She moved to check the IV line, efficiently adjusting the drip rate.
I let my eyes go unfocused, my speech thick and confused. "My dog... is Charlie okay? I left him in the car." The words slurred together convincingly. "He gets scared when... when the storms come."
Patricia's expression shifted to gentle concern. "Oh, honey, there's no dog listed in your belongings. You were in an accident, remember? You're safe now."
"But Charlie..." I tried to sit up, then let myself fall back against the pillows with a grimace. "He needs his medicine. The blue pills. Where are the blue pills?"
She turned toward her cart, reaching for her tablet to take notes. When her attention turned away from me, my fingers moved to the key ring clipped to her badge reel—hospital master keys, elevator access, storage rooms. I palmed them without a sound.
The pulse monitor was next—three adhesive patches connected to leads, beeping with my heartbeat. I peeled them away carefully, the adhesive pulling at skin and hair. The machine let out a confused chirp, then went silent.
"Let me just check with the doctor about—" Patricia began, still focused on her screen.
I swung my legs over the side of the bed. White-hot pain exploded through my ribs, but I clamped down on the reflex to cry out. I'd learned to breathe through agony and compartmentalize nerve signals and muscle function. Pain was information. It could be processed and filed away.
My bare feet hit the cold linoleum. Pain flared as I shifted weight to my injured leg—sharp at first, then settling into a hot, dragging pull. The hospital gown gaped open in the back, exposing my skin to the air. Patricia turned as I reached the bathroom door.
"Mr. Doe, you shouldn't be—"
"Just need a minute," I pushed through the door and locked it behind me. The small space reeked of industrial disinfectant. I gave myself ten seconds to let the dizziness pass, then moved to the window. Too small, too high, and facing the wrong direction.
Patricia pounded on the door. "Mr. Doe? Are you all right in there?"
I needed a different plan. I unlocked the door and stumbled out, one hand pressed to my head like the world was spinning. "Sorry, I feel... everything's moving."
Patricia was already reaching for her radio and calling for assistance. Perfect. While she spoke in urgent medical codes, I slipped past her into the hallway.
The service corridor was precisely where I'd mapped it—an unmarked door beside the supply closet, propped open by a wedge someone had kicked into place. The laundry cart squeaked past just as I reached it, pushed by a tired-looking woman in scrubs who didn't look twice at another patient wandering the halls.
I fell into step behind her, casual and unhurried. The service hallway was dimmer, quieter. Boxes of supplies lined the walls.A forgotten pair of surgical gloves lay crumpled on a shelf beside masks and disposable gowns. I grabbed both without breaking stride.
My ribs screamed with each step, the stitches in my temple pulling tight enough to make my vision blur at the edges. Still, I kept moving. Movement was survival. Stillness was death.
The freight elevator was ahead, doors standing open like an invitation. I slipped inside as voices echoed from the patient wing—Patricia discovering my empty room and calling for security, initiating lockdown protocols.
The elevator descended, carrying me away from antiseptic safety and toward whatever waited in the Seattle night. When the doors opened, I stepped out into the city.
Rain misted everything in a fine spray, turning the streetlights into soft halos. My stolen surgical mask clung damply to my face, and the gloves were already moisture-slick. The disposable scrubs and hospital gown offered little protection against the October weather, and within seconds, I was shivering.
