Chris swears under his breath, but the others agree this is the only way in. Adam flips on the jammer and hides it in his pocket.

The guy at the front desk eyes us suspiciously as we return.

“I’m on the list,” Adam says and places his palm on the scanner.

I check my watch, debating how many minutes it will take the police to get here. Ten? Fifteen? Can we get the information we need and get out in time?

The guy’s head jerks up. “Oh, Mr. O’Neill! I’m so sorry. I didn’t recognize you with the baseball cap on. I just watched your episode of Celebrity Profiles.”

“Uh, great,” Adam says. “These people are with me too.”

“No problem. Go on up.”

“Thanks. Um…remind me. Which room is he in?”

“Three-oh-four.”

We rush into the elevator and breathe a collective sigh of relief, even though the elevator reeks of bad perfume. We find room 304 and Adam knocks. A nurse with fluffy, brown hair and blue scrubs opens the door. She peers out at us but doesn’t seem to recognize Adam. Maybe she’s new or not the regular nurse. “Yes?”

“Hi, we’re here to talk to…Bob,” Adam says.

She nods and lets us in, leading us past a living room with floral furniture and into a small bedroom. Dr. Walters lies in a hospital bed, his eyes closed. He’s a frail version of his former self. His gray hair is now all white and wispy, and his wrinkled skin is paper-thin.

The nurse walks over to him and bends down close to his ear. “Bob,” she says, and he blinks and looks up at her. “These kids want to talk to you. Is that okay?”

His face changes when he spots us. His eyes widen, his lips part, and his hands clutch the sheets at his waist. “You…you…”

I tense up—he must know I’m the murderer—but then I realize he’s not looking at me but at all of us. Still, he probably blames me for their deaths. I have to make sure he doesn’t say anything to the others about it.

“Do you want me to send them away?” the nurse asks, touching his arm.

“No.” He tries to sit up. “Leave us.”

The nurse props a pillow behind him. “Are you sure?”

“Go!”

She huffs and adjusts his pillow again but leaves the room with one last warning look to us. The door shuts behind her, and we all crowd around his bed. He can barely move, but seeing him like this is a painful reminder that I’ll never grow old myself.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, his eyes focusing on each of us in turn. His voice is raspier now, much weaker than I remember. “This isn’t the right year…”

I exchange a glance with Adam. Dr. Walters doesn’t know. Maybe the accelerator did malfunction.