“Don’t get me wrong, cher,” Sabin drawled, “I love a good medical drama, but I’d rather not play the part of patient. Can I be the doctor?”
The man didn’t react. He wrapped the pressure cuff around Sabin’s right arm and inflated it with the bulb, reading the gauge and noting something on his tablet. Deflated. Noted again.
“You know, most doctors at least pretend to be interested in their patients. It builds rapport. Makes people feel cared for.” Sabin watched him remove the cuff and reach for the blood draw equipment, selecting a vein with clinical efficiency. “I’m told bedside manner is the cornerstone of the profession.”
The needle went in. Sabin didn’t flinch — he never flinched for needles; it had been trained out of him years ago — and watched dark red begin to fill the tube. The man made another note.
“What’s all this for?”
“Establishing a baseline.” The man didn’t look up.
“Baseline for what?”
Nothing. The tube filled. He withdrew the needle and pressed a small square of gauze against the puncture point without looking at Sabin’s face. Two more notes on the tablet. He checked Sabin’s pupils with the penlight and then packed everything up and closed the case.
“Pleasure talking with you,” Sabin called as he walked away.
The door closed.
He listened to the footsteps recede down the corridor and stayed very still, staring at the small square of gauze taped to the inside of his elbow.
Baseline.
A baseline implied a before. Which implied an after. Which implied something was going to happen to him that wouldchange the numbers—change the measurements—enough that having a record of the before state mattered.
He wasn't a man scared easy, him. But that white coat, the way the man looked at him like he wasn't even there — that put a cold on Sabin he hadn't felt since he was a boy.
He’d been interrogated before by people who were genuinely trying to hurt him, and he’d talked his way out of it or endured his way through it, and come out the other side.
But he wasn’t so sure he’d see the other side this time.
Time passed. The fluorescent light flickered twice, so at least eighty minutes. Sabin kept his eyes on the door, waiting. Most people got bored when confined. They fidgeted. They sang. They went a little crazy.
Sabin counted.
When he was ten, his father had taught him and Vivi a memory trick—each number had a shape, a picture associated with it. One was a candle. Two was a swan. Three was a trident. By linking the shapes into ridiculous stories, you could memorize long strings of numbers. Bank account details. Safe combinations. The specific number of steps between a skylight and a motion sensor in a museum in Vienna.
Now he counted tiles. Guards. Minutes. Steps in the escape plan he was formulating.
The lockpick was his promise of freedom. If he could work his way through the zip ties without being caught, if the tall guard could be convinced to look the other way, if the cameras monitoring him could be fooled for just long enough...
A lot of ifs.
Math had always been his favorite school subject, and probability was math. The odds weren’t great.
Mais, sometimes a man played the hand he got dealt and prayed tole bon Dieufor a miracle.
He lifted his head when he heard footsteps in the corridor again. Not the white coat this time. Heavier. One of the guards.
The lock turned. The door swung open.
It was him. The tall guard entered carrying a plastic cup of water and what might generously be called a sandwich if you were very hungry and not too particular. Sabin was both.
“Mais,room service getting better every time, yeah.” Sabin sat up straighter, wincing as the movement sent fresh pain through his broken fingers. “You know what would really complete the five-star experience? Being able to feed myself.”
The guard said nothing, but his eyes—blue, so startlingly familiar—met Sabin’s briefly. There was something there. Hesitation. Uncertainty.
“Seriously, now. I can’t even scratch my own nose with these.” Sabin tugged at the restraints for emphasis. “What do you think I’m gonna do? Make a run for it? With my face looking like it went through a meat grinder and two broken fingers?”
