“Does Julian know you work at St.

Jude Memorial?” I asked.

“Julian doesn’t know I’m alive,” Dr.

Thorne said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the fluorescent lights.

At seventeen minutes past seven, the double doors of Delivery Room 3B swung open without a knock.

Julian walked in first in his dark charcoal wool overcoat over his tailored suit, carrying no flowers and showing no sign of having slept.

Eleanor followed a step behind him, her dark mink collar buttoned tight to her chin despite the warm air in the ward.