Jack Hammerson sat in his darkened office, the only illumination coming from the screen on the desk in front of him. The display showed only two weak life-sign signatures, one almost nonexistent — vegetative. Its blinking lights whispered:
He remained, unmoving, in the dark. His body could have been carved from stone. As if finally remembering he needed to, he drew in a long, slow breath, then switched on his desk lamp. He picked up the folder and flipped it open.
Closing his eyes, he sorted through his options. He thought of his promise to Jim Hunter all those years ago. But if he could have brought
‘It’s me… Ready the lab. I’ve got someone for you.’