Time in the ICU was measured not in hours, but in the rhythmic sigh of the ventilator, the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor, and the soft, relentless squeak of nurse's shoes on linoleum. It was a suspended, fluorescent-lit purgatory, and Alexander Hale had taken up permanent residence.

He refused to leave. He dismissed his assistant, canceled all meetings, and became a fixture in the uncomfortable vinyl chair by Lara's bedside. The blood had dried to a stiff, crackling brown on his shirt and hands. A kind nurse had eventually brought him a set of blue hospital scrubs to change into. He'd looked at the folded fabric, then at Lara's pale, intubated face, and changed mechanically, his movements those of a sleepwalker.