“I know,” Vance said. “She explained the situation. You need a fast recovery on a cloud-based smart-home system.”

“Yes,” I said. “Before tomorrow morning.”

“That depends on the server architecture and your level of access,” he said. “Are you legally permitted to access the account?”

“My name and email are listed as the primary recovery contacts on the hardware profile,” I said. “It was set up under my old family group plan.”

“Then it’s your data,” Vance said. “Where are you now?”

“My apartment,” I said. “Near the hospital.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” he said. “Have a secure internet connection and a pot of black coffee ready.”

He hung up without saying goodbye.

I stood up and walked to the kitchen.

My shoulder still throbbed beneath the bandage, a dull reminder of the wine bottle Patricia had swung at me.

I measured out the coffee grounds with one hand, my movements slow and deliberate.

Outside, a light drizzle began to patter against the windowpane.

The city lights were blurred through the wet glass.

Exactly nineteen minutes later, the buzzer for the front gate sounded.