The sugar in the soda was kicking in. Ted was beginning to make sense of the voices and what they were saying. He decided that he was going to live. Now was the time to convince the crowd hovering over him. “No more fucking candy!” he yelled. The words were crystal clear and met with two beats of silence.

“I told you not to give him candy,” the hidden woman’s voice chimed in.

The male nurse helped Ted to his feet and guided him to a bed. Ted sat on the edge and stared at the doctor, who seemed to be waiting for him to do something interesting. The world was moving much too fast—then too slow. His bodily chemistry was all askew. As clarity returned, it came with a frenetic rush of desperate energy. Changes came in waves less than seconds apart. As the adrenaline wore off, the caffeine from the soda began to give him a headache and caused an annoying buzz that left him cranky and ready to argue—about anything. And he was hungry. Monstrously hungry. He craved water and lusted for a Gallagher’s cheeseburger. Or that stew Mohammed had been eating.

“Can I get any real food?” he asked.

Shortly, a prepackaged sandwich appeared in front of him. Tuna salad—that tasted mostly of chopped raw onion—on a soggy white roll. It was heavenly. He devoured it in four bites and promptly fell asleep.

-65-

-65-

He woke much later, temporarily confounded to find himself in a private room in the ICU. His bladder felt as if it were the size of a basketball. He pulled himself out of bed and rushed to the bathroom, where he pissed a jet-propelled stream for the next few minutes. Catching sight of himself in the mirror as he washed his hands, he almost didn’t recognize the much older man staring back at him. He splashed cold water on the original until the reflection appeared awake. It was time to reengage with the world.

He drifted out to the nurses’ station. “Is she awake yet?” he asked the nurse closest to him.

“Who?” She looked up, obviously surprised to find Ted on his feet and leaning over the counter. “You should be lying down.”

“My fiancée. McKenzie Zielinski.” Maintaining the persona seemed more important than ever.

“She’s fine. Asleep. Now get yourself into that bed.”

“Sleeping? Or . . .” His voice trailed off.

That earned him a sad smile and a touch of empathy. “She hasn’t awakened yet, but we’re all confident that it’s just a matter of time. You saved her life, you know?”

He hadn’t known. She explained. If he’d shown up a couple of minutes later, the Russian would have been done and out the door. A hefty shot of insulin into the IV, and Kenzie would have slid into a diabetic coma. The machines wouldn’t have recognized the difference. She’d just never have woken up.