I squeezed his fingers, waiting for any sign of recognition.

His hand remained dead weight in mine.

I touched his cheek, feeling the dry, unnatural heat of his skin.

He was heavily sedated, his mind locked away behind whatever was flowing through that clear plastic tube.

I looked up at the IV bag hanging from the pole.

The label was handwritten in black marker: *Compound 404 – 50ml/hr*.

Below that, a printed warning read: *Restricted Access – Administer only under direction of Dr. Vance*.

On the bedside table sat a leather-bound clipboard with a digital tablet locked into a metal frame.

I grabbed the clipboard and flipped through the physical pages underneath.

They were daily chemical logs.

The patient name at the top of each page was *Arthur Vance*.

But as I flipped further back, I saw an old intake form from six months ago.

The original name had been whited out, but the signature at the bottom was unmistakable.

It was Alexander’s handwriting.

My phone suddenly buzzed in my coat pocket, the vibration loud in the silent room.

I pulled it out, my thumb sliding across the screen.