I'm startled awake by a loud voice. I can't make out the words—they're all garbled by my sleep-addled brain, but I recognize the speaker. The door to my room flies open as I sit up, and it's Kate. The look on her face isn't curiosity or even concern; no, she's worried and terrified, and when she sees me staring back at her, I can see every muscle in her body relax in relief.

She holsters her gun—why would she have that out in the hospital?—and practically sprints to my bedside, even though it's only a few feet.

"Daniel," she breathes, and I'm starting to wonder what fucked-up scenario my imbalanced brain has concocted for me today. "You're okay," she says, wrapping her arms around me. "Oh, my God, you're okay."

I stiffen. I have no idea what's going on. "Of course I'm okay," I say. "I'm here, in the hospital."

Kate pulls back far enough to look me in the eyes, and she looks worried again.

"Why haven't you come to see me?" I ask, because the way she's behaving is making me think she might actually be real. "I've been here for so long..." It doesn't even matter how long I've been here. If this is the real Kate, she should have come to see me within the first six hours.

"I know," she says, brushing my hair back from my forehead. I realize with some disgust that my hair is greasier than a deep-fryer. "I know you have, and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I never should have let you out of my sight."

I don't understand what she's talking about now, but before I can ask, she's clinging to me like I'm going to vanish if she lets go. I can feel the contours of her face against my chest. "I thought you were dead," she whispers, and now I'm completely baffled.

"What do you mean? I've been here, in the hospital." I gesture around me, and as my eyes sweep the room, I can't help but notice it seems darker than usual.

I look back to Kate, and she's completely detached from me, save for her hands on my shoulders. "No, you haven't," she says patiently. "Look around you. Really look. You're not in the hospital, Daniel, and you haven't been for a while."

I look at the room again, and it's no longer the hospital room I'm used to. The single bulb in the room casts a sickly yellow light on the room. The wallpaper, covered with what I realize are my own scribblings, is peeling and moldy. There are no windows into the hallway, and the windows to the outside world are all boarded up, except for the one I usually sit at, which is caked with dust and cobwebs. I stand up, trying to take stock of my room. The carpets, which might have been cream or beige or white at one point, are shabby and spotted with various stains and burns. The bed is rusting and rickety, and the night table has lost almost all of its paint. In my closet, which has lost both of its doors, the clothes on the hangers aren't clean pajamas, but sweat-stained t-shirts and filthy sweatpants. I look down at my own clothes; my shirt and sweatpants are stained with God knows what, and my plaid bathrobe is thin from wear and torn in more than a few places. I walk back to the bed, which is probably crawling with bugs and is covered with a tattered quilt that is a far cry from its hallucinatory counterpart. I can smell myself, and I need a shower and clean clothes, but more importantly, I need to know what the hell is going on. "Where am I?" I ask Kate, who's standing at the foot of the bed now, watching me.

She stands totally still as she recites the facts to me, like it's a case, trying to distance herself from her emotions long enough to get all the words out. "You're in an abandoned motel room in Elburn, forty miles west of Chicago. You've been here for three weeks and four days, and I am so sorry it took me so long to find you." Her voice breaks near the end, and her tears glitter in the dim light, but she doesn't flinch.

I don't believe it. "No," I argue. "No—no! There was a—a murder, and I was admitted and—and you came to see me, and—" I freeze. I can't remember anything after that. A vague memory feebly tries to assert itself of Kate standing next to me, and of Natalie in a doctor's coat, and of me walking out, but it's fuzzy and weak, and I'm not sure which memory is real.

"Yes," Kate says. "There was a murder. You were admitted. I came to see you. We investigated." A shining tear falls down her face, but her voice is still steady. "We got too close. I thought they'd killed you, but we couldn't find your body, so I—I had to hope you lived." Her voice breaks once, and the last part comes out as a whisper. Another tear falls to punctuate her words.

"No. No, that can't be right!" I tug at my hair, pacing around the dingy room in my tattered robe and my bare feet. I don't know what's real, and it's frustrating. And then I have an idea. "Backup," I say. "Where's your backup?"

Kate laughs nervously and wipes her eyes with her fingers. "In the hallway," she says. "I made them wait outside so you wouldn't be overwhelmed."

I walk to the door and poke my head out. Half a dozen armored guys with guns are standing ready in the hall, led by Roger Probert. He gives me a cheeky grin, but I can see the relief in his posture, too. I turn back to Kate, and even though it's not a great situation, I want it to be the real one.

I walk over to the dirt-encrusted window and look outside. There are some smudgy black shapes in the alley below, and I'm pretty sure they're police cars.

I hear Kate walk over to me, and her hand rests gently on my arm. "Come on," she says quietly. "Let's get you home."

I turn toward her, and I don't know if she's wearing heels, or if I've somehow gotten shorter, but she seems a lot closer to my height now. It's all too easy for me to just lean down a couple of inches, to press my lips against hers—and then I do. I'm startled, first by my own audacity, and second by her hands, tangled in my greasy hair. I put my arms around her and pull her closer, amazed and emboldened by the fact that she doesn't seem to care that I haven't showered in God knows how long. I break away from her when I realize I still have to breathe, and her hands, slightly greasy from my hair, hold my face where it is for a moment. I brush her face with my fingers, and for a moment we're just staring in awe of each other.

"Ohh-kay, you lovebirds," Probert says from the doorway. "We don't have all day."

Kate and I both blush, and she drags me by the arm to the door. I'm pretty sure I can hear Probert stifling sniggers behind us as Kate leads me down the stairs. I'm afraid to stink up her car, but she insists it's the only way I'm getting home to a shower. We compromise by rolling both passenger-side windows down and turning the fan on high. This seat is going to smell like greasy, filthy, middle-aged madman for the rest of its life, I'm sure, but we make it home, and Max is waiting with a change of clothes and a cup of good tea.