As quietly as he could, Evan slipped from the sheets. His shoulder ached with each movement, but the pain was surprisingly manageable. He walked silently across the floorboards. His muscles felt tight, his lower back complaining about the bedridden hours.

Easing into the bathroom, he tugged the pull-chain light. His unshaven face glowered back at him from the mirror. He’d seen more attractive sights.

It took some doing to reach the string at the back of the hospital gown, but he managed, letting the fabric rustle forward off his arms and puddle on the floor. Biting his lip, he loosed the adhesive dressing taped across his shoulder, letting it hinge open. A gnarled patch of flesh capped the deltoid. A horizontal scar ran above the clavicle, an accent mark Mohawked with sutures. The bone looked passable, probably restraightened with the help of a metal rod.

His vision spotted, and he leaned against the sink to regain his balance. Another week or so and he’d be well enough to leave. But he didn’t have a week.

He had to get to the boy, as promised.

To Alison Siegler.

And then to René.

Evan’s hair was knotted, gummed with sap. His face had been wiped clean, but streaks of dried blood still marked the side of his neck, the edge of his temple. He smelled of sweat and dirt.

Lowering himself into the empty tub, he let the water trickle warm. A fresh razor rested on the cake of soap. He shaved carefully in the semidarkness, then used a washcloth to bathe himself. The lather filled the tiny bathroom with familiar scents, bergamot and saddle soap, lemon and musk—the smell of Jack. It brought Evan back to the two-story farmhouse of his childhood. His dormer bedroom looking across a blanket of oak trees. Strider, their Rhodesian ridgeback, lapping table scraps from Evan’s twelve-year-old hand beneath the table. The hard part is keeping you human. Jack’s foot ticking along to La Fille du Régiment. Nine high C’s. Towering bookshelves and mallard green walls. Photograph of Jack’s long-dead wife in its tarnished silver frame. Parking Level 3. Blue flannel. The tang of iron and cherry blossoms. Have I ever lied to you?

Have I ever lied to you?

Yes.

You have.

Evan shut off the faucet. With effort he hoisted himself up, stepped free of the bathtub, and managed to towel himself mostly dry. Leaving the dirty hospital gown, he exited the bathroom, crept across the room, and sat on the bed.

The cabinet of the nightstand held medical supplies. He spread them on the sheets. Tugged out a fresh square of gauze and tore the package with his teeth. The medical tape gave him trouble.

Behind him at the table, Jack was awake. Evan didn’t know how he knew. He just did.

Jack’s voice ghosted over his shoulder. “Can I help you?”

“No,” Evan said.

*   *   *