Without moving too much, I try to glimpse who’s talking. Someone behind the couch, on the far side of the room. Out of sight.

The television grows louder, and a woman’s pseudo-serious news report fills the room. “We have confirmed that officials received an anonymous tip warning about the attack, which at the time they dismissed. As to the man’s identity, that remains unclear. Witnesses say that within seconds, approximately one hundred teens swarmed and mobbed a man in his late twenties or thirties at the east end of Navy Pier.”

Keep it together, Finch. I tell myself. Bury it. I imagine a black, twisty tunnel spiraling through my head and down my spine to the deep caverns of my gut, where I lodge the sights and sounds and everything that happened on the pier.

“Paramedics rushed him to Northwestern Hospital, where he is reported to be in critical condition. The hospital will not comment on the extent of his injuries; however, sources say he is not expected to survive.”

She’s emotionless when she says it, like she’s reporting traffic. How can she talk like it doesn’t matter whether this guy lives or dies?

“We will continue our ongoing coverage as we wait to hear from the mayor . . .”

Another guy’s voice speaks over the television. “Shouldn’t you be with him right now, Richard?”

Richard—I assume—responds. His nasal voice is curt, uptight. “I’d say a girl washing up on the mayor’s dock an hour after the attack is fairly important.”

Nameless Guy’s tone reeks of derision as he says, “I was starting to think you wanted to keep her. I mean, sure, she smells awful, she has seaweed in her hair, she’s unconscious and half your age, but whatever does it for you.”

I grab the back of the couch and heave myself upright. The room rocks and blurs. Three silhouettes stand against an oversized window flooded with gray light. I push myself up to face them, but my knees buckle. I fall against the couch’s arm.

“Take it easy. You hit your head,” says a new voice. It’s deep and comforting, like he wants me to surrender.

The shadows inch toward me like I’m some rabid, wild animal. I jerk back, maintaining distance, squinting to make out the details of their faces. I stumble over the coffee table and into the side of an armchair.

“You were wheezing pretty heavily, and your O2 levels were low. I gave you a shot of Prednisone to help you breathe. What do you normally take?”

One of the shadows walks closer, arms out, indicating he won’t hurt me. “Albuterol?”

My head feels jumbled, like someone poured syrup in it, slowing down my thoughts and senses. It takes a second to remember the name of the medication I depend on to stay alive. I nod, hesitant to say too much.