He’d had the best neurologists in the country and was a scientist himself. He’d read, and understood, the literature about the near impossibility of neuro improvement in a patient with a C4 spinal cord injury. Yet he was determined to go ahead with Cheryl Weaver’s operation—despite the chance that this bucolic setting outside his window in a strange hospital in a strange town might be the very last image of nature he ever saw in this life.

Of course there are risks.

So why was he doing it?

Oh, there was a very good reason.

Yet it was a reason that the cold criminalist in him had trouble accepting and one that he’d never dare utter out loud. Because it had nothing to do with being able to prowl over a crime scene searching for evidence. Nothing to do with brushing his teeth or sitting up in bed. No, no, it was exclusively because of Amelia Sachs.

Finally he’d admitted the truth: that he’d grown terrified of losing her. He’d brooded that sooner or later she’d meet another Nick—the handsome undercover agent who’d been her lover a few years ago. This was inevitable, he figured, as long as he remained as immobile as he was. She wanted children. She wanted a normal life. And so Rhyme was willing to risk death, to risk making his condition worse, in the hope that he could improve.

He knew of course that the operation wouldn’t allow him to stroll down Fifth Avenue with Sachs on his arm. He was simply hoping for a minuscule improvement—to move slightly closer to a normal life. Slightly closer to her. But summoning up his astonishing imagination, Rhyme could picture himself closing his hand on hers, squeezing it and feeling the faint pressure of her skin.

A small thing to everyone else in the world, but to Rhyme, a miracle.

Thom walked into the room. After a pause he said, “An observation.”

“I don’t want one. Where’s Amelia?”

“I’m going to tell you anyway. You haven’t had a drink in five days.”

“I know. It pisses me off.”

“You’re getting in shape for the operation.”

“Doctor’s orders,” Rhyme said testily.

“When have those ever meant anything to you?”

A shrug. “They’re going to be pumping me full of who knows what kind of crap. I didn’t think it would be smart to add to the cocktail in my bloodstream.”

“It wouldn’t’ve been. You’re right. But you paid attention to your doctor. I’m proud of you.”

“Oh, pride—now there’s a helpful emotion.”

But Thom was a waterfowl to Rhyme’s rain. He continued, “But I want to say something.”

“You’re going to anyway whether I want you to or not.”

“I’ve read a lot about this, Lincoln. The procedure.”

“Oh, have you? On your time, I hope.”