It was a text message from an unknown, unlisted number.

I tapped the screen to open it.

There was no text, only an image file.

I waited for the image to download, my heart starting to thump against my ribs.

The picture slowly loaded from the top down.

It was a photograph taken from a low angle, looking up at the hospital building from the dark street below.

A circle was drawn in red ink around a single lit window on the fourth floor.

It was my window.

A second text message popped up immediately below the image.

The screen read: *She has his eyes.*

At that exact moment, the metal door handle of my recovery room slowly began to turn.

The door handle turned.

The latch clicked.

A crack of yellow light from the hallway spilled across the linoleum floor.

A tall shadow fell over the foot of my bed.

Nathan stepped into the room.

His coat was damp, dark circles staining the shoulders.

He closed the door behind him with a soft, deliberate click.

“You shouldn’t be awake,” he said.