“This will be hard to hear,” he says. “The good news is we were able to reset Q back an hour prior to his collapse. He will wake in a few hours and he will have no recollection of what happened.” He frowns. “However, Q did suffer a significant setback. There was an inexplicable surge in Q’s brain that induced, in simplest terms, a coma. During this comatose state, Q’s brain activity, along with the rest of his vital organs, began behaving as if Q were, in fact, dead.”

“What are you saying? Just say what this means already,” Ms. B demands. Her face a diagram of impatience: eyes narrowed, lips curled, forehead flexed.

“My apologies.” Mr. O nods, throat-clears. “It means Q’s length of stay was seriously impacted.”

“Wait, you’re saying he won’t get four weeks?” I interject.

“Regretfully, no,” Mr. O replies.

Ms. B’s voice jumps like someone startled her from behind. “So, how much time are we talking? How much does he have left?”

“Three weeks?” Whit asks. “Less?”

Mr. O shakes his head. “It truly pains me to say, but it would be a miracle if Q lasted another forty-eight hours.” He removes his glasses, gives them a quick buff with his handkerchief.

“No! No! You promised me . . . you said there was nothing to worry about!” Ms. B yells, and I have to step in front of her to keep her from crossing the room in a fury.

Mr. O, however, doesn’t seem to notice his life’s in jeopardy. “But we do have another option. We could put a hard cap on Q’s reanimation.”

“What does that mean?” I ask.

“We’d set the exact time Q would re-die. That way there are no surprises. That way everyone can prepare.”

Ms. B wags her head in disbelief. “But you just said you don’t know how much time he has. That it could be a day, two days.”

“We would have to schedule him to re-die tonight. We could give you a couple of hours to say your goodbyes.”

And I’ve never seen Ms. B move so quickly—even when we were racing to the conference room at the hospital. And then she’s barreling into Mr. O, shoving him back onto the sofa, Mr. O’s eyes like the first letter of his last name, wind knocked from him, he struggles to talk, to explain.

But Ms. B appears beyond all that.

“You lied to me,” she says over and over. “I never would’ve done this! I shouldn’t have done this! What was the point? Two days? Two days!”

I do my best to pull her away, the Center’s team of transporters don’t touch her, but they gradually slide between her and Mr. O, forming a human wall between them.

Mr. O stumbles to his feet, stoops to catch his breath, hands on his knees.