I turned the key in the ignition, switched off the headlights, and pulled away from the curb.

I drove for twenty minutes, turning randomly through the quiet streets of Queens until I was sure no one was following me.

I pulled into the far corner of a parking lot of an all-night diner.

The neon sign flickered, casting a dull pink glow over my dashboard.

I unzipped the bag and pulled out the medical charts and the digital tablet.

The paper files were labeled with a patient number, but Alexander’s photo was clipped to the inside cover.

I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the clinical terms.

*Protocol 4-B.*

The words were printed at the top of every daily log sheet.

Below them were listings of chemical compounds administered daily through his IV line.

I recognized one of the names from my research on synthetic neurotoxins: *Loxipine-6*.

It was a heavy sedative that, in continuous low doses, mimicked the symptoms of early-onset dementia and catatonia.

They weren’t just keeping him asleep.

They were systematically destroying his brain so he could never reclaim his life.