He turned. “For eight years.”

I stayed in the doorway. He went on. “My wallet was taken when I was admitted. One of my men brought it up after security checked it.”

“You carry our photograph?”

“I carried the only proof I had that I hadn’t imagined you.”

The answer was too honest. I stepped into the room. “How are you feeling?”

“Like a man whose cardiologist refuses to be his cardiologist.”