“I am far too accomplished to brag about anything,” he says with a fleeting grin. “But yes, I can read Latin.”

“Would you mind . . .”

“Email it to me.”

“Are you certain?”

“I am bored out of my mind, Alana. And I’ve got at least two more days until I will be released from quarantine. My parole cannot come soon enough.”

Somehow, he already seems like an old friend. “I’m really glad you beat this thing, Claudio.”

“I am relatively pleased myself.” His smile falters. “How many others won’t?”

She has no answer for him. Instead, she pats his shoulder and says, “Listen, Claudio, I have to run. I’ve got another meeting to get to.”

“Of course, you do, Miss Bond. Probably in an abandoned gondola on some treacherous mountain peak.”

“Something like that.” She grins as she turns for the door. “See you soon, Claudio. And thanks.”

Alana leaves the hospital and heads straight to the biology building of the University of Genoa, where she has arranged to meet Justine. The rodentologist is already garbed in PPE gear and waiting for her in the basement hallway. She passes Alana a matching set.

“So?” Justine views her expectantly. “Got another Tinder date tonight?”

“Byron and I weren’t on a date!” Alana snaps, immediately regretting her defensiveness.

“If you say so.”

Biting back her annoyance, Alana shakes open the folded gown, raises it over her head, and jabs her hand into the sleeve. Her shoulder pops, and she gasps in pain.

“What’s the matter?”

Alana forces her arm outward and feels the instant relief of her shoulder slipping back into place. “An old injury,” she says as she carefully slips the rest of the gown on.

“From Afghanistan, right?”

“Yeah, a wall collapsed on me after our hospital was bombed. My arm was trapped. Ripped all the tendons in the rotator cuff. My shoulder has been unstable ever since.”

“Ouch. They couldn’t fix it, huh?” Justine asks with what sounds like genuine concern.

“I’ve had enough surgeries.”

“If you say so,” Justine says. “He’s not so bad, you know?”

“Who?”

“Byron. Nothing wrong with him that a couple martinis and maybe a baseball bat couldn’t fix. You could do a helluva lot worse.” She laughs. “So could he, come to think of it.”

Alana only sighs. “What about you, Justine? Are you married?”

“Unfortunately. I got a husband back in Atlanta. A real lab geek, too. He’s a royal pain in my ass.”

Alana picks up on the affection behind her flippant words. “Any kids?”

“No. Not yet. I like the fieldwork too much.”

“Yeah, well, don’t wait too long.”

Justine eyes her with a knowing smile but says nothing. Instead, she opens the door beside her with a gloved hand.

Alana follows Justine into the sterile-looking lab. In the center of the room stands a high table surrounded by wooden stools. On top of it, a grayish rat lies belly-up on a green towel, surrounded by an array of surgical instruments.