I found myself putting my hand over hers. It was hot to the touch. I managed to hold it about ten seconds before she said, “I should talk to somebody.”

Dr. Kriss got up and hurried down the hall.

I took a walk outside, the baggy scrubs swishing. Night had fallen, a hiss of insects in the air. I found Gwen and Vince washing out the truck in the ambulance bay. Vince had changed out of his purple polo into cutoff jeans and a T-shirt that said MUSIC HEALS.

I interviewed them about what happened with Zeke. They assumed he’d been stabbed over a bike with what looked like a pair of scissors. After they explained the various procedures I’d witnessed, I asked about informed consent.

It was the first time I’d posed a probing question, and Gwen immediately tensed.

“You don’t know Zeke like I do,” she said. “He wouldn’t have understood. It would’ve made it impossible for us to do our job. Anyway, he was totally incapacitated.”

“He was awake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“His eyes were open.”

“That doesn’t mean he was conscious.”

I didn’t have an answer.

“It’s been a long night,” said Vince, and he shut the back doors of the truck. “A long few days, am I right?”

I closed my notebook, thanked them both for having me along, and offered my hand. To a lot of people it seems unfeeling, how the journalist pivots from confrontational to cordial. For us, the questions aren’t personal, but for the subject, the answers are. It must feel like we’re messing with their heads.

Vince shook my hand, but Gwen held hers up as if they were too dirty.

“Enjoy the rest of your stay in Retreat,” said Vince, “and good luck with your story.”

—

When I got back inside, Dr. Kriss was gone. I found a familiar nurse, who told me the subject had stabilized and the doctor was looking for me.

I jogged aimlessly along the hallway. Suddenly someone snatched my wrist. I spun around to see Dr. Kriss, who whispered, “I want you to see this,” and pulled me into a room. A few doctors were standing around Zeke’s bed. He was intubated, eyelids flickering open.

“Do you have your recorder?” she asked. “Take it out.”

“Alright,” said Dr. Warner, who’d replaced the fired Dr. Behniwal. “He’s awake.”

I turned the recorder on.

Dr. Kriss stepped to the bedside. “Zeke?”

The subject looked at her. She smiled. I’d never seen a smile so pure. This moment was everything to her.

“My name is Eva Kriss. I’m your doctor.”

She explained to him where he was, what had happened. She told him he’d been the beneficiary of a new medical advance. From a pocket of her coat, she produced a bag of white blood and held it up. The solution in this bag had saved his life.