The coffee chased some of the cold from my body, and I was able to think more rationally. I knew what my objectives were in going to see her, but it still felt like a bad idea. Thing was, I had no idea why; I couldn’t tell what would be “bad” about it, it was just this irrational feeling. I didn’t like irrational feelings.

I downed the rest of the coffee and tossed the cup into the bin behind me. This was ridiculous. I’d just go, introduce myself, lay everything out on the table, and leave her alone. Quick in-and-out; I’d be home in an hour.

I marched myself, a man with a purpose, into the reception area. “I’m here to see Grace Winslowe,” I said with more calm and assurance than I felt.

She entered the name into the computer and wrote down a number on a small piece of paper and handed it to me. “Room 253. Elevator is down that hall; take it to the second floor and go right.”

I thanked her and moved on, keeping my gaze down and avoiding eye contact with everyone else in the hallway. I was afraid to attract attention, and it still amazed me that no one had recognized me the last time. I hoped my luck would hold again.

I entered the elevator and pressed the 2 button. No one else joined me. As I walked down the hall, quick glances into the open rooms revealed lots of shiny equipment with tubes and wires and strange, disquieting noises.

The numbers ascended, and then I was there. I stood next to the door, trying to dispel the urge to turn around and walk away. I peeked stealthily around the corner; she appeared to be sleeping. Great. Now what?

I passed by the room and found a water fountain where I drank enough to fill a fish tank before straightening and marching back toward the room. I entered slowly and stood in the doorway for an awkward moment before realizing she wasn’t asleep at all, but humming quietly to herself with her eyes closed. I noticed earphones, then a yellow Walkman in her lap. I stared at her for a moment, realizing that I wouldn’t have been able to describe her to anyone based on the events of that night; I’d been so scared I hadn’t really seen her. She had long, blondish-brown hair, a strip of sunlight shining through the window illuminating red highlights. Her skin was pale, no typical California tan, and though her face was bruised and scratched, she looked like she could be pretty. Not gorgeous, but pretty. She looked young—twenty-five maybe? Twenty-seven?