Inside the hospital: paramedics rushing in with the boy on a stretcher. Frank Snow, three years old, motor vehicle accident, no other survivors. Walker’s point of view came jostling forward into a field of intense lights, the hands moving expertly to cut away the boy’s shirt, taking stock of multiple injuries, the small body hardly big enough to contain all the things wrong with it. Turning to give orders, swiveling back to concentrate on the boy. Sudden spurt of blood coming from the boy’s mouth, so much blood—

A dark study illuminated solely by a desk lamp, very late at night. A cup of coffee and the leather-bound book, Walker’s finger tracing lines of text. In the background, the steady, somehow unbearable tick of a clock.

Later: a narrow hospital room, the boy in bandages amid a forest of IV drips and a breathing tube down his throat; motionless, eyes half-closed. A yellow line charting his heart rhythms.

Later still. Walker’s hands scribbling notes in a chart, the handwriting from Snow’s file. Writing faster, the tip of the pen gouging the paper. A signature slashed on an order for increased medication. Face of a nurse, bland as a sheep, peering in. Walker’s finger jabbing the air, sending her away.

Walker’s finger, the yellowing pages in the dark study again, words flipping past.

A ring of doctors standing in a half-circle outside Snow’s closed door, grim faces, discussing options, none of them good.

Walker’s hand filling a coffee cup, spilling a little, the vision black-ringed with fatigue.

In his narrow room, the boy, disintegrating by whole orders of magnitude, colorless, death perched at his shoulder like an ugly bird.

Walker’s reflection in a bathroom mirror, chin lathered with shaving cream, fatigued. Hand trembling, slipping until blood seeps from the nick in his throat. Fingertips roll the blood, examining it.

Monitors: barely a twitch of activity on the long electronic line. The boy slipping further, disappearing into the depths of his bed like a small boat between the waves.

Walker’s point of view coming back into the narrow room. The door closing behind him.

Opening a canvas bag.

Taking out the book.

Seeing it, Mike struggled to draw back from the vision but the chain of events fastened around him, binding him tight. He stared in helpless paralysis as Walker’s hands opened the book to the spot he’d marked.

The words like grave-dirt in his mouth.

Monitor needles jumping, then falling flat. Code alarms screaming. On the bed, the boy’s body twitching once and falling still. Smell of burning hair, the shriek of butchered animals from deep within the earth. Heavy thumping vibrations in the floor beneath his feet giving way to—

Walker’s point of view, looking down.