Her plastic name tag read *V. Miller*.

“Can I help you?” she asked, not looking up from her thick computer monitor.

“We are here to see the night administrator,” Charles said, stepping up to the desk.

The woman looked up, her gaze lingering on Charles’s expensive, tailored coat and the polished leather of his boots.

“Dr. Kenneth doesn’t take unscheduled visitors, especially during a blizzard like this,” she said, her voice flat.

“Tell him Charles Whitmore is here,” Charles said, keeping his voice smooth and polite.

“And tell him I am interested in discussing the emergency funding for the new medical wing.”

The receptionist hesitated, her fingers hovering over the beige telephone on her desk.

She picked up the receiver and dialed a three-digit extension, her eyes never leaving my face.

“Dr. Kenneth? There is a Mr. Charles Whitmore here to see you,” she said, her voice dropping.

She listened for a long moment, nodding slowly as the person on the other end spoke.

“Yes, doctor. Right away.”

She hung up the phone and pointed a thin finger toward a long, dimly lit corridor to her right.