The window slid closed. Jack added a little more lather to the windshield. When he had it satisfactorily opaque, he pulled a small vial of T-72 from the bucket and poured its contents into the heater’s air intake at the base of the windshield wipers.

Then he began wiping the glass dry. He took his time on the windshield, moving slowly, dabbing at the corners, playing the role to the hilt. And doing a damn fine job, by the way.

When he was done, he stepped up to the driver window, grinned, and held out his hand.

The driver returned the grin—and gave him the finger.

Jack looked hurt and pressed his hands together as if praying.

The driver’s grin broadened as he brought up his other hand to add a second bird to the window display.

“Keep smiling,” Jack said softly.

And then the guy in the passenger seat slumped against the driver’s back. The driver jerked around, pushed him off, and shook him, but the guy was limp as overcooked linguine. Then the driver turned back to the window and Jack could all but see the light go on in his head.

“That’s right, guy,” Jack said. “You got trouble.”

The driver fumbled for the inner handle and started to open the door, but Jack slammed against it and held it closed. The driver struggled and might have got out—he was bigger than Jack—if the T-72 hadn’t been working on him. He made a couple of weak shoulder butts against the door, then slumped against the steering wheel and joined his friend in slumber land.

Jack waited to make sure he was out, then he opened the door and quickly ran through the driver’s pockets. He found two sets of keys and took both. He closed the door and left the motor running.

He glanced around—no one in sight. Good.

After pocketing the T-72 vial, he placed his bucket and squeegee by the curb and settled back to wait for Alicia.

4.

4.

Alicia forced her feet to keep moving, placing one shoe in front of the other as she turned the corner and trod the sidewalk toward that house.

She tried to think about anything but the house, pushing her thoughts toward Hector in PICU. The little guy was fading away. No question about it now—a resistant strain of C. albicans. His white blood cells, one of the body’s main defenses against infection, were disappearing from his bloodstream. The WBC count had been down to 3,200 this morning and had dropped to 2,600 this afternoon. The infection was running rampant, overwhelming his bone marrow’s ability to crank out the white cells.

And there was nothing more she could do for him.

Which allowed her thoughts to escape Hector and return to the house.

The house…