His bespoke suit was wrinkled and slept-in.

His hair was wild.

His face had gone the gray-white of a man who has not eaten or slept in days and has just begun to understand that neither will help him.

He pushed past the security desk, ignoring the officer who rose to stop him, and strode toward the private recovery lounge where he’d been told he would find me.

And in the doorway, he stopped dead.