What do all those Jesus-nuts shout on television? he asked himself.

“Look at him.” He pointed to Dunne. “Oh, the Lord heals the sick and the afflicted. His power saves. See for yourself.”

Alma Dunne saw that her husband’s eyes were open. She rushed past Starrell to Dunne’s side and grabbed his hand.

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Oh, honey, Clarence, Clarence. Oh, Clarence.” She stroked his face.

Starrell moved past Margaret Hanover, zipping up the bag.

“Praise the Lord,” he said to her. “Praise him and the power of prayer and our hospital”—damn, what’s the word?—“ministry. I’ve been praying over him. Yes, ma’am, I have. Eugene Carver, of Christ Healing Ministry.”

He stopped and held out his hand. She took it and stared at him, not knowing what to say.

“A pleasure,” he said. “Praise Jesus.”

“Thank you,” Margaret replied.

Starrell opened the door and pushed through the clutch of family, security personnel, and hospital employees. “Who’s that?” he heard someone say. “His nephew, right?” another voice said. “He’s not a nephew,” a different voice replied. Starrell kept walking and emerged from the crowd.

“Hey, you, wait a minute.”

Starrell broke into a sprint. The backpack slapped against him. His feet pounded the tile; he stretched out his gait. He heard someone—maybe two people—running behind him. Only dead men look back, he told himself. There were more shouts. He heard the voices, but did not listen to the words. Pump it, pump it, pump it, he said to himself.

He grabbed the metal door handle. He yanked it open and leaped down the first flight of stairs. He landed, reached for the railing and flew around the turn. He heard the door slam open behind him and more shouts. He gained his footing, took two quick steps, and jumped again. He caught the railing, turned himself, and passed the door to the seventh floor.

Concentrate on the feet, he said to himself. Concentrate. Jump, grab, turn, two steps. Then again. And again. He heard the grunts and groans of the people chasing him. He couldn’t tell if they were gaining. He wondered if they had guns. Jump, grab, turn, two steps. “Concentrate”—he said it aloud. “Concentrate.”

He went by the third floor. Shit, he thought, the men in suits outside the hospital room—Secret Service. Must be a whole posse at the hospital. If not for Dunne, then for Margaret Hanover. They all got those radio things in their ears. They’re probably waiting for him at the bottom floor. God damnit.