I checked my appearance in my compact mirror and winced. Three weeks in the hospital had left me pale, with dark circles under my eyes and my silver hair hanging limp around my face. I’d lost twelve pounds I couldn’t afford to lose, and my good blouse hung from my shoulders like a child playing dress‑up. But there was nothing to be done about it now. I applied a touch of lipstick—a small vanity that seemed suddenly important—and waited.

True to his word, fifteen minutes later, a sleek black Bentley pulled up to the curb outside. The driver, an elegant older man in a crisp uniform, emerged and approached me directly.

“Mrs. Hayes? I’m Samuel. Dr. Wells sent me to assist you.”

Before I could respond, another figure emerged from the car. Tall, distinguished, with silver hair and those penetrating blue eyes that somehow managed to be both authoritative and kind. Harrison wore a casual but impeccably tailored outfit that probably cost more than my monthly pension.