He was increasingly confident that their mystery patient, who had been in an induced coma for nearly a week, was ready to have the final bullet removed. The problem was authorization. The man had no family, and in fact had not even been identified. The hospital’s Ethics Board had advised him that a court-appointed advocate was the preferred course, but this took time, and the impending weekend did nothing to raise the chances of finding a magistrate. An impatient Dr. Brune decided to voice his concerns to the police, who’d been keeping a curiously constant presence around the patient’s room. In less than an hour, two men appeared at his office door.

“Can I help you?” said Dr. Brune.

The men introduced themselves. One was from the Swedish Ministry of Foreign Affairs, and the other a representative of the Israeli embassy.

The Israeli said, “We’ve come to discuss the patient in room 605. We know who he is, and I have papers signed by the family that grant us authority to make decisions regarding his treatment.”

The Swede concurred. “The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has made extensive verifications—everything is in order.”

Dr. Brune looked at the documents. He had never seen anything like it, but the sheer weight of the paper seemed convincing enough.

The Israeli said, “What do you advise as the best course for the patient?”

“He is stable. I would recommend surgery to remove the final bullet lodged in the upper lumbar region.”

The Israeli nodded. “Agreed.”

Brune looked at the two men. He could request to speak directly with a family member, but the set in these men’s jaws told him that wasn’t going to happen. An unusual situation, but a license to proceed, in his opinion, in the best interest of his patient.

“Very well, then. I’ll schedule the operating theater for tomorrow morning. But there is one thing I’d very much like to know—does this man have a name?”

The Swede nearly answered.

The Israeli cut him off.

“No.”

*   *   *

Had it happened a half second later, when his gaze was more fully averted, Slaton might have crushed the kid’s larynx.

The flash of motion came out of nowhere, close and quick to the left of his bench. With only an instant to evaluate and react, Slaton set his base, raised a blocking forearm, and cocked his right arm back for a counterstrike against the scrawny attacker lunging in from the periphery.

The Frisbee hit him in the lower lip.

The teenager altered his trajectory at the last second and tripped over Slaton’s squared leg, tumbling onto the worn grass in front of the bench.

Slaton eased.

“Pardon,” the kid said as he stood, dusting himself off. His wide smile was a further apology—and proof that he had no idea how close he’d just come to dying.