Step, step, squeal. Step, step, squeal.

Vera knew Maxwell’s mother had a history of substance abuse, but even if she was using, it wouldn’t explain the odd changes to her voice, laugh, and smell. Plus, she sputtered some of the exact same bizarre phrases as Mr. Gonzalez. Thankfully, she didn’t have a shrine, or at least no Grim Reapers that Maxwell knew of, but still, Vera’s gut sent up a flare.

She spun her cart around another corner. There were two vegetarian deliveries on this floor, one up ahead. Her eyes located the proper meal as she squealed past a bank of dusty gray office chairs bolted to the floor. Stagnant. Permanent.

Step, step, squeal. Step, step, squeal.

A janitorial cart rested ahead—Candace’s. Vera could tell by the way she organized her bottles. A smile spread on Vera’s lips as she prepared to say hello, then she spotted a canary book peeking from the cart’s side pocket. The cover featured a sun engulfed by an eclipse. Huh, that group really is popular. How had Vera not noticed it before? A fog of Lysol enveloped her, chemicals slathering her tongue, and before Vera could glance in the room to find Candace, an alarm rang out.

A patient was coding.

Vera threw herself against the drywall, tugging her food cart closer to make room for a stampede of white-sneakered feet.

“She pulled out her IV and the oxygen tube,” hollered a nurse as she raced by.

“Isn’t she restrained, after last time?” asked the resident.

“Yes. And sedated.”

“It must be delirium from the hypothermia.”

“Maybe.” Only, the nurse didn’t sound convinced.

The staff charged into the room across the hall, its alarms blaring as they shouted commands.

Vera was supposed to keep moving. Privacy was paramount. Regardless, she stood still.

Feet pounded. Instruments clattered. A woman, maybe in her late twenties or early thirties, writhed on the bed. Her greasy hamburger-colored hair dripped into her mouth as her torso thrust up and down. The top of her checkered gown untied, tumbling to her waist, circular stickers adhered to her chest with no wires attached.

Vera couldn’t look away.

“Hold her down!” the resident shouted.

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder!”

The girl thrashed in the bed, her lower jaw jutting out in a fierce underbite, teeth gnashing together as sounds ripped from her chest. She snatched a bedpan and pitched it against the wall.

“The pain! You’ve brought it back!” Her voice was too deep for her frame.

Vera stopped breathing.

Flip-flops thwacked down the hall. “Camille! Camille!”

A middle-aged woman, maybe her mother, threw herself through the doorway only to be blocked by a nurse in lavender scrubs. “Mrs. Sheehan, we’re doing everything we can. You can’t be in here.”

“Camille! Honey, I’m here!” The mom fought with the same determination as her daughter, struggling to get inside. “What is happening?” The woman shoved, nearly knocking the nurse to the floor. “She’s been so much better lately, best she’s been in years. She said the pain was lessening.”