At 3:01 a.m., a physician asked Adrian whether he knew the patient’s legal name.
Adrian said:
“Julian Matteo Duca.”
The doctor looked at the chart.
The nurse looked too.
“Date of birth?”
Adrian gave it.
The nurse typed.
Her expression changed.
She looked up.
“Mr. Duca?”
“Yes?”
“Our system says that individual is deceased.”
Adrian stared.
“I’m aware.”
The nurse seemed unsure whether he was making a joke.
He was not.
The hospital contacted police.
Adrian contacted Elena Park, his personal attorney.
She arrived before four.
No makeup.
Hair tied back.
Navy coat over black trousers.
Elena was forty-six, Korean American, and one of the few people Adrian paid specifically to tell him when he was behaving like an idiot.
She entered the private waiting room.
He handed her the ring.
She examined it.
“Could be copied.”
“It isn’t.”
“How certain?”
“I made that scratch.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Being checked.”
“DNA?”
“Drawn.”
“Did he speak?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Adrian looked at her.
“Don’t call Mercer.”
Elena’s entire posture changed.
“Daniel Mercer?”
“Yes.”
“Your chairman.”
“Yes.”
“The man who has been part of your family since before you could drive.”
“Yes, Elena.”
“I’m establishing exactly how bad this sentence is.”
“Very.”
She sat.
“Have you contacted him?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Adrian looked sharply.
“You believe this?”
“I believe a man who may be your legally dead brother told you not to contact one specific person before losing consciousness.”
“That is enough reason not to contact that person for several hours.”
Adrian stared at the ring.
“Daniel helped arrange the funeral.”
Elena said nothing.
“He sat beside my father.”
“I know.”
“He chose the funeral home.”
“I know.”
“He gave me Julian’s things.”
Elena leaned forward.
“Adrian.”
“What?”
“Do not solve this before evidence.”
He laughed once, humorless.
“My brother came out of a wall.”
“I’m asking a lot.”
“Yes.”
“Still.”
He looked toward the treatment doors.
For the first time since he was thirty-three, Adrian allowed himself to think the words:
Julian is alive.
They hurt more than Julian is dead ever had.
Death had been final.
This was an explosion backward through time.
At 4:20, an attending physician entered.
“Mr. Duca?”
Adrian stood.
“He’s stable.”
The word nearly dropped him.
“He is severely dehydrated, malnourished, and showing signs of both recent and older trauma.”
“How recent?”
“Some bruising within the last several days.”
“Rib fracture appears several weeks old.”
“Older injuries include healed fractures we’d need imaging to date.”
“Can I see him?”
“A few minutes.”
Julian lay under white hospital blankets.
Monitors blinked.
The room smelled antiseptic.
Adrian stopped at the doorway.
Julian opened his eyes.
For a long moment, they simply looked.
Julian whispered:
“You got old.”
Adrian laughed and cried at the same time.
“So did you.”
Julian’s mouth twitched.
“Rude.”
Adrian approached.
“How do I know it’s you?”
Julian closed his eyes.