Instead of waiting, I walked to one of the old industrial windows overlooking the street. Cars moved past as usual. They stopped when the light turned red, continuing on their way with green.
Regular people absorbed in their daily lives.
The microwave beeped. I ignored it.
Kitchen. Living room. Window. Again and again, like I was wearing a track in the hardwood floor.
I pulled open the drawer in the side table beside the couch, where I kept things I didn't look at often. Bills I'd already paid. A warranty card for the microwave. And underneath everything else, wrapped in tissue paper that had gone yellow at the edges, my Afghanistan photograph.
Farid and the rest of my squad smiled up at me from a faded color image. He wore a Manchester United jersey that was two sizes too big. We all stood beside a dusty Humvee, our arms around each other's shoulders.
I had the photo in my pocket when the IED went off. Afterward, when the dust settled and the medics pronouncedhim dead, I'd crumpled it in my fist, bloodstained and torn along one edge. The creases remained.
The John Doe from the crash scene had been clutching his photograph in the same way. His fingers wrapped around it like it was the only thing keeping him tied to consciousness. To life.
Who were the two people in the desert in his picture, and who was lurking close enough to cast a shadow?
The microwave beeped again, insistent. I walked to the kitchen and yanked the door open. The pad Thai sat there, steam rising from noodles that smelled like fish sauce and lime. I wasn't ready for it. My stomach clenched, and I shoved the container back into the refrigerator.
I went back to the hospital before my shift. Our GSW victim was still there. A few hours later, Reyes texted me: the John Doe had slipped out of Harborview.
Where are you now?
I pressed my forehead against cool window glass and watched Seattle go about its early morning routines.
The glass fogged under my breath, blurring the street below into smears of yellow and white. I wiped it clear with my sleeve and stepped back.
Mr. John Doe was in my head again—not how he'd looked unconscious and broken in the wreckage, but when his eyes fluttered open in the back of the ambulance. Those dark eyes tracked my movements as I worked. He didn't look confused or disoriented the way trauma patients usually did.
Was he examining me? I gripped the windowsill, knuckles going white against the painted wood.
What kind of person gets shot and then ends up in a traffic accident? The timing was too precise and convenient. Someone fired a bullet into his ribs, and a few short hours later, he ended up trapped under a delivery truck on I-5.
The usual drone of Mrs. Kaminski's television stopped, replaced by nearly complete silence, like the building was holding its breath.
No identification. No emergency contacts. No insurance cards, credit cards, or anything that connected him to a normal life. People didn't exist without paperwork, not in Seattle in 2025.
Unless you were hiding from something. Or someone.
Was the gunshot a hit? Retaliation?
My hands trembled. I pressed them flat against the kitchen counter, feeling the cool laminate under my palms.
Somewhere in Seattle, a man with a bullet wound and no name was trying to recover from severe medical trauma with no assistance. Maybe he'd found shelter. Perhaps he was already dead in an alley, succumbing to infection or blood loss.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. Pipes creaked faintly in the walls. Outside, a car door slammed—then silence.
Then came the knock.
Soft. Hesitant. Three gentle taps, a pause, then three more.
Probably Mrs. Kaminski needing help with something—a stuck window or her ancient garbage disposal acting up again. Or maybe Marcus, stopping by after his shift, with some complaint about Ma worrying too much.
I walked to the door and flipped the deadbolt, not bothering to check the peephole.
After opening the door, I couldn't process what I was seeing for a moment. It was the John Doe from the highway accident.
He leaned against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His face had gone gray-white, the color of old bone, and sweat beaded across his forehead. Dark stains spread across the front of his shirt—not the random spatters of an accident, but the steady seepage of an open wound. Someone had found him again and tried to finish what they'd started.
