Chapter Five

You drive me so reckless
You'll kill us all
I can take the trouble—I'll take you on
-The Dead Weather, 60 Feet Tall

Around eleven thirty the next day, my cell phone rang. I in the middle of doing a quick write-up on a new patient I had been assigned (paranoid schizophrenic and would-be murderer, pretty normal stuff in Gotham and a rather transparent attempt by Stratford to keep me occupied while he hemmed and hawed) but I answered anyway, balancing the phone between my shoulder and ear. "Hello?"

"Harley, sweetie!" Pam Isley's husky voice rolled over the line into my ear.

"Hey, Red," I said, feeling the tension in my shoulders relax just a little bit at the sound.

"You're getting to be a hard woman to reach. Don't tell me you haven't seen me on your missed calls list."

"Uh, yeah," I said, feeling suddenly sheepish. I'd had a few calls from her in the past days, but I'd never found the time to return them. "I've been busy."

"Don't tell me you've found a newer, cooler best friend," she teased.

I snorted. "Of course not. As if anyone could be cooler than you." I threw a little bit of playful sycophancy in my tone, and it worked—she laughed delightedly, and I smiled, pausing to try and organize my thoughts before continuing. "It's just… wow, Red, you aren't going to believe what's happened over the past week."

"Right back at you, which leads me to think that this won't be a good conversation to have over the phone. Are you free for lunch?"

"Umm—" I glanced at the clock. I was due to take lunch in three minutes, and things had been unusually slow for me ever since I was assigned to the Joker—the occasional easy patient, a boatload of boring paperwork that had been delegated to me, that was about all. They wouldn't notice or care if I took a few extra minutes. "Yeah, I am, actually."

"Can you meet me at Charlie's in fifteen?"

"No problem."

"Okay, see you there."

"Bye."

I hung up and tossed my cell phone into my purse, and began gathering my stuff. Promptly at eleven-thirty, I was in my car and heading out of the Narrows to Charlie's.

Charlie's was a little diner just over the bridge. It had the disadvantages of being dangerously close to the Narrows and looking like a glorified storage facility, but this was countered by the distinct advantages of making the best bacon burger you ever tasted and an unusually friendly staff for a city place. It marked the midpoint between mine and Pam's places of employment, and so we met there for lunch relatively often.

It took me a little more than fifteen minutes to reach the diner—traffic over the bridge always sucked—so when I walked inside, I saw that Pam was already there, sitting in the furthest booth from the door.

I walked over till I was just behind her and, affecting a deep voice, I asked, "Hey, hot stuff—is this seat taken?"

Her head turned and I caught the flash of annoyance crossing her face until she realized it was me, and then the irritation disappeared and she let out a cheerful laugh, springing up from the booth to hug me. I squeezed her back. "Hey, Red," I said with a grin. "Long time, no see."

"I know," she said. "Not my fault."

I slid into the booth opposite her and rested my chin on my palms, grinning despite the slight reproach in her tone. I always forgot how much I valued my best friend during the work-filled weeks when I didn't get to see her, but seeing her again always brought it back in a rush. In Gotham City, the value of a good friend could not be overstated.

I met Pam on my first day at Arkham—a chaotic day, to put it lightly. She was there to perform some tests on a newly-admitted patient, one who had been exposed to some toxins, and I was supposed to follow her around and help her with anything she needed. She seemed perfectly at ease in the Arkham infirmary and didn't seem to need my help in the least, and so, being of a disposition that abhorred long silences in the presence of strangers (not necessarily because the silence itself made me uncomfortable, but because I worried that it was making them uncomfortable, which in turn, made me uncomfortable), I hovered at her elbow and kept up an unending stream of conversation. I worried the entire time that I was annoying her, but she didn't tell me to shut up, and later on, during a wine-and-romantic-drama-film girls' night in, she told me that she was glad I'd been so chatty, since she felt awkward with the silence (I knew it) but that she was so reserved upon meeting new people that she rarely felt comfortable trying to fill it.

I found out that she was a botanist, specializing in plant and animal-based toxins, hence her appearance at Arkham. She was into plants. Like, seriously—I'd never met someone so very, very absorbed with environmentalism and the earth. She kept a notebook in the olive green eco-friendly tote she carried in lieu of a purse, and she was constantly digging it out, flipping it open to write down theorems about plant hybrids or potential new strains or uses for existing plants. Seriously, this woman loved plants the way other single women loved cats, stereotypically speaking.

Me, I wasn't so much into plants. Where her thumb was green, mine was red. I could barely keep a cactus alive. I would much rather talk about mental disorders.

Even despite having radically different primary interests, we bonded strongly over our considerable common ground—we were both single women living alone in a big, scary city. Neither of us intended to be intimidated by this fact. We both had our doubts about people—she couldn't understand why the human race would abuse and kill off the resources that had taken care of them for so long; I didn't understand why how people could be so cruel to one another, how parents could increasingly and willfully cause so much trauma to their own children that those children ended up doing horrible things and sitting in counseling with me twenty years later.

Pam was scary-smart, too, and gorgeous to boot. She had legs a mile long, thick red hair, stunning green eyes hidden behind smart, black-framed glasses, and pale skin without a freckle to be seen—I had never met someone who looked more like a supermodel, and in my opinion, her elfin, elegant beauty far outstripped my cutesy, curvy shortness. Fortunately, vanity was not an issue with her. She didn't even wear makeup most of the time, due to animal testing (not as huge a priority with her as deforestation, but still an issue) and her problems with the fact that "we're expected to get all painted up every single day just so we can be objectified even more than we already are." I fully supported her stance, but I also privately thought that it was easy for a woman as naturally beautiful as Pamela Isley to go without makeup.

No sooner had I taken the seat across from her than our usual waitress, Kat, came to take our drink orders (lemonade for me, water for Pam). As soon as Kat left, Pam fixed me with a stare. "Tell me your news," she demanded.

I grinned and shook my head. "You first," I ordered, just as bossily. I could see that she was brimming with excitement, ready to tell me, and I knew that if I started talking about my new patient I wouldn't be able to shut up long enough to listen to her. The Joker could wait.

"I'm going to Egypt," she announced, trying not to smirk and failing.

My jaw dropped. "What?!"

She let out a peal of laughter that had several of the rough-looking men in the diner turning their heads. "You're catching flies, Harley. It's only temporary, a week or two at the most."

"Wh—I mean, that's fantastic news, but why?"

"Dr. Woodrue—" she said, making a slight face (Woodrue was her boss; she wasn't particularly fond of him and had made it clear to me in private that she thought he was incompetent and a pseudo-intellectual)—"has been invited to examine some recently-unearthed Egyptian artifact, a casket from the era of Rameses II. It's said to contain, in part, some ancient strains of herbs that would be extinct now." She was practically vibrating with excitement—plants got her so excited; I just didn't quite understand. "They need a specialist to see if they can use them to revive these strains, so he asked me to come along."

I laughed. "A botanist's dream date," I teased her.

She made a face. "Ugh," she groaned. "Don't rub it in. I'm not at all excited about the Woodrue-coming-along aspect of this trip. Granted, I don't think he has any unprofessional intentions, but even so… if I wasn't a hundred percent sure I could take care of myself, I wouldn't have agreed to go along."

"You're one of the most capable people I know, Red, and I'm sure everything will go perfectly," I said sincerely. "This is a great opportunity for you. When do you leave?"

"Not till next month," she said, modestly inclining her head. "I only just found out today. Should give me time to make some progress on the prototype of that cure-all antitoxin I'm trying to put together."

Kat returned with our drinks, and I smiled at her before grabbing my lemonade. "Cheers," I said, toasting my friend.

She was smirking like a satisfied cat at the reception of her news, but she made an attempt to nod modestly. "So that's my big story. What's yours?"

I paused, stirring my drink with my straw. I hadn't really thought through how I was going to tell her this—I realized that it was considerably less cut-and-dry than I've got a new patient that might make my career, what with the constantly-looming danger and the troubles I was encountering with my superiors. "Um," I said. "You know how we're detaining the Joker in Arkham at the moment?"

She raised one delicate eyebrow. "They're putting off his trial until someone can come up with a comprehensive analysis of his mental state, right?"

I nodded once, slowly. I chewed on my bottom lip for a second and then asked, "Guess who they've assigned to his case?"

For a second, she didn't move, didn't make a sound. The only noise came from the other murmuring patrons and the slightly louder jukebox, jovially playing Bobby Darin's Beyond the Sea. "Harley," she said finally, "are you telling me they've got you in there analyzing that man?"

I nodded, watching her warily. "Are they crazy?" she asked flatly.

Okay, not going to pretend that didn't hurt. I blinked and leaned back a little bit, and Pam quickly realized her mistake, reaching out to grab one of my hands.

"Oh, honey, I didn't mean it like that! I know how smart you are—I wasn't implying you aren't capable of dealing with it! But, Harl, he's a murderer. He's dangerous—what are they thinking?"

"Most of the patients in Arkham are dangerous," I said a little shortly, still stung by her initial reaction. "I haven't heard you worrying about me working with them." She dropped her head humbly, and I rubbed the bridge of my nose and pulled in a breath. I was overreacting. It was clear that she hadn't meant any offense, so I continued, a little calmer now. "Red, I'm not going to lie, he scares me to death. Being in the same room as he is… it's absolutely draining. But he talks to me—he talks with me, in a way that he hasn't talked to any of the other therapists who have tried to examine him. I don't know… it feels like he's made a conscious decision to let me see more than he's shown to anyone else."

"Well, how many sessions have you had?"

"Two," I confessed. "I know, it's not really enough to judge—but he tore everyone else to shreds within ten minutes. He must have gone through nine, ten shrinks this way, Red, trained psychiatrists who are supposed to be able to handle that sort of behavior—can you blame me for getting excited that he hasn't done the same to me?"

"He has his reasons," she said cautiously.

"Of course he does," I said with a touch of exasperation. "For all the talk about anarchy and chaos, I think he's got a very precise agenda, and if this pattern continues then it probably means I fit in there somewhere—"

"And that doesn't scare you?" she interjected.

"—but look at what's happening in the meantime!" I continued, ignoring the interruption. "I'm getting a look at him. Maybe it isn't a really good look, but it's closer than anyone else has gotten, that's certain. And this man's mind… it's as fascinating as it is scary."

She drew back her hand. "Huh."

I had her attention now, and I kept talking. "He's so smart… I mean, I wish the normal guys I know had half of his mind. He's a master at debate… his ideas are so strange, but when you hear them straight from him, they make so much sense. Even when I know he's preaching something crazy, he still makes it seem sensible. It's like the crazy is the side-effect, and he doesn't give a shit because crazy isn't crazy if you see things the way they're meant to be seen. That's how he thinks, anyway."

"You like him," Pam said suddenly.

That shocked me into wide-eyed silence for a full five seconds, after which I recovered enough to glare fiercely at her. "Pamela Isley. What on earth are you talking about?"

She shook her head at me. "Don't even think about it, Harley," she said.

"About what?"

"Denying it. I can sniff out attraction faster than biotrophic fungi in my orchids—"

"Is that a euphemism for something?" I sniped, and she glowered at me, continuing on as if I hadn't interjected.

"—and you reek of it right now." I made a short, indignant, high-pitched sound, and she rolled her eyes. "You had this same exact look on your face when you first told me about Dr. Stratford. Something about the Joker draws you in."

"I'm going to see if I can shuffle my schedule around to make room for you, Pammy, because you're out of your mind."

"Oh, you might not be romantically attracted to him." She paused, and I sensed her unspoken words as clearly as if she'd shouted them: Not yet, at least. "But," she resumed, "you are drawn to him—to his mind, at least." She paused, thinking, and then added: "Which is disturbing if you think about it. I mean, if a mind as twisted as his is appealing to you, what does that say about you?"

My stunning comeback: "Whatever." Her lips jerked downward, as if she was so desperately trying not to smile that she was drastically overcompensating, and my hands flailed about as I tried to recover. "Red, I'm a criminal psychologist. I'm absolutely supposed to find thoroughly-twisted minds intriguing, that's literally my job, but only so that I can figure out how to… help my patients unknot their delusions and smooth all the kinks out."

"Kinks," she said pointedly.

"Red."

She waved her hand in the air dismissively. "Oh, relax. I know you're not going to develop an actual crush on a psychotic domestic terrorist—"

"—one who also happens to be my patient," I interjected.

"—and in the extremely unlikely event that you did, it's not like there's the remotest possibility that anything would come of it. He's locked up tight, and your bosses would probably see it before you did and pull you out of there. Still. Do me a favor: watch your step. Don't work so hard at getting into his mind that you get stuck there."

I crossed my arms, leaned back in my seat, and muttered, "I don't see that there's anything to be careful about, but fine."

She regarded me with a slightly gaping mouth. "I don't think I've ever seen you this sulky."

"I'm not sulking!"

"Oh, yes you are."

"Oh, yes you are," I mimicked.

"Oh, wow, we went really mature with that one," she mumbled to the glass of water she was bringing to her mouth.

"Really mature with that one," I echoed in a less-than-flattering imitation of her voice, which was naturally a little deeper than mine.

Her forehead furrowed. "How has the Joker not killed you yet?"

I laughed, remembered that I should be offended, said "Hey—" and then started cackling again. Still, I couldn't just let her get away with it, couldn't let her sit there with that self-satisfied smirk on her face, so I managed to choke out, "You can be so bitchy sometimes."

"And I take that as a compliment, considering that bitchy is usually code for doesn't put up with any shit. You have your bitchy moments as well, if you remember correctly. Do I need to bring up a certain night involving a lot of champagne, high heels, and a very wronged Venus Flytrap?"

I couldn't help it; I laughed. "Not fair."

She shrugged. "All is fair in love and war, and I believe I declared war on you for that incident."

I laughed again. "What am I going to do while you're gone, Red?"

She smirked back at me. "You seemed to manage quite well earlier this week. Run to your new patient. Copious study of his… kinky mind can comfort you, I'm sure."

"Red!" I growled, and she winked as she took another sip of water. Cheeky bitch.

Pam had allowed me to shrug off her suppositions, but even so, I had trouble sleeping that night. The idea troubled me. I had always thought that I was relatively normal, relationship-wise—aside from not having had many to speak of, that is. But this… this was far from normal.

One would have to be a masochist to be attracted to the Joker, and masochistic I wasn't. Hell, attracted I wasn't. So, yes, I had enjoyed our two sessions almost as much as I feared them, but only because he was such a conundrum. Despite the limitless variations that existed from person to person, most mental illness was not difficult to diagnose—it was the treatment that posed the problem.

The Joker, though, was entirely different from any other patient I'd encountered. There were several diagnoses that applied to some of his tendencies, but not a single one that covered them all. If anything, his mind contained a sort of rat-king of mental illness, and the idea of trying to untangle and understand them all (and therefore understand him, a result that was more tempting with each day that passed) was an attractive one.

That attraction, however, did not extend beyond past a professional level. No matter what Red and her biotrophic fungi say.

Because of the restless night and resulting lack of sleep, I was already grumpy when I rolled into Arkham in the morning. My foul mood was compounded when I arrived at Stratford's office to see if I would be allowed more time with the Joker today only to discover that he was holed up with a very attractive young woman in a doctor's coat.

"Ah, Dr. Quinzel," he said, spotting me before I could skulk away. "Come meet Dr. Fletcher."

I entered the room and looked the woman over. She was essentially my physical opposite the—tall, a bigger bone structure, dark skin, brown eyes, and confident. This was no resident, no college girl fresh from school. "Hello," I said politely, trying to control the sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Dr. Quinzel has had a few sessions with him," Stratford said to her as she nodded at me. "Her observations are in the case file."

"Um, excuse me," I interjected, resisting the temptation to raise my hand sarcastically. "What's going on?" I tried hard to keep my voice neutral instead of accusatory, but I'm sure he saw the look in my eyes, because he glanced quickly away from me and towards Dr. Fletcher again.

"Ah, Dr. Fletcher is the director of the state asylum," he said with false brightness. "She's come to conduct a few sessions with the Joker."

I stared unblinkingly at him, refusing to look at her, willing him to meet my gaze, and became convinced he was intentionally avoiding it when he didn't so much as glance in my direction. "Really," I said softly, though my mind was in turmoil.

No. No. He's my patient, dammit—if you palm him off to some other doctor then bad things are going to happen. Why don't you understand that? A completely irrational wave of jealousy washed over me, blending with my thoughts and twisting them into a more selfish direction: What if he gets along with her? Decides she's more fun to play around with? I'll just get thrown out on my butt, hitched to the next utterly boring case to come along. This is unbelievable.

"Doctor?" he said, still looking at her. "He's waiting for you."

"Excellent," she said. Her voice was smooth, mellow—calming. Great in a therapist. "It was nice meeting you, Doctor Quinzel."

"Likewise," I forced out. She and Stratford walked past me, heading for the elevator that would presumably take them to the same examination room I'd met him in. I waited until the elevator collected them, and then bolted to the ladies' restroom.

It was empty. I planted my fists on the counter and glared at my reflection. "What does he think he's doing?" I snarled to myself, since I was the only one I could talk to right now. "This can only end badly."

Yeah—badly for the Asylum, or badly for you. Not both.

I glared even more viciously at myself for coming up with that thought. It was true. Either he'd tear her up like he had done to the therapists before me, in which case the asylum would promptly put me back on the case… or he'd toy with her, talk to her like he had to me, in which case I probably would never get to talk to him again and he'd get sent to his death… or some form of electro-shock therapy. Same thing, according to some.

My lip was hitched in a feral snarl. Some part of me was frightened by my own anger—I wasn't prone to frequent losses of temper, but it seemed that I was arguing and yelling more than ever since I'd taken on this case.

For one brief second, I lost control.

I lashed out with my right fist, hitting the mirror as hard as I could. The glass splintered into a spiderweb of pieces, and I got a couple of shards in my fist as my reflection disappeared.

I immediately snatched my hand back, bending protectively over it and hissing in pain. I hadn't thought the move through, and now I was paranoid, worried that someone would come in. Quickly, I grabbed some paper towels and wiped the center of the web, collecting the few drops of blood that remained and then pushing them down into the garbage can. I grabbed another one, wrapped it around my knuckles, and hurried out of the room before anyone came in and saw what I had done.

"Genius move, Harley," I muttered to myself as I rushed along the halls, heading quickly for the infirmary.

There were two nurses there, but they were treating an inmate with a gash in his eyebrow and barely noticed me—I hid my bloodied hand behind my back as one of them acknowledged me with a brief nod. I went to the cabinet where the practical bandages were kept and collected a few before slipping out again. I had gotten lucky—neither nurse had the time to speak to me.

I went to a different restroom to rinse off my hand. I wasn't bleeding much—not dripping so much as seeping. I cleaned off most of the blood and then wrapped my knuckles in bandages. It was a little awkward, doing it one-handed, but I managed to tape it down.

I'd been particularly injury prone over the last week or two. First the bruises, which I had been keeping covered with scarves and by leaving my hair down—now this. It served me right for losing control like that. I could only hope that I was able to play it off, come up with a convincing lie for my torn hand.

I felt my back pocket vibrating—my cell phone. I finished up with the bandage and quickly fished it out of my pocket with a free hand.

It was a text from Pam. I flipped the phone open to read the following: Anything to report on the clown?

I quickly spelled out a response: They've got someone else looking at him right now.

I shoved the phone back into my pocket and left the bathroom. I decided to go to Dr. Fitzhugh, one of our older doctors on staff, to see if she could find something for me to do. My assignments had been few and far between since I'd started with the Joker—lately it had been a blessing, since I hadn't wanted to focus on anything else, but I was starting to feel like I never worked anymore, and at the very least, it might distract me.

Unfortunately, my track record wasn't about to get any better. I was talking with Fitzhugh, who was about to assign me as a substitute for one of the doctors who had called in sick, when a nurse I didn't recognize approached us.

"Doctors? Dr. Stratford wants you in the conference room on third… quickly, he said."

I frowned. It had only been fifteen minutes at most since he and Fletcher had been in his office; surely he would want to monitor her session like he did mine? I wouldn't think he'd pull her out as quickly as he did me. She was more experienced, after all.

Maybe she insisted on not being watched. Or maybe… maybe it's over already.

My heart started pumping faster as we exchanged glances and, in unison, headed for the conference room. I almost didn't notice my phone, vibrating in my back pocket again.

What? Who?

I texted her back as we stepped onto the elevator: Some doctor from State. More later, busy now.

When we reached the conference room, it was in uproar. There were about four other doctors there, aside from me, Fitzhugh, and Stratford, and everybody was talking at once. Stratford was standing at the head of the table. When I walked in, right behind Dr. Fitzhugh, everybody got quiet.

Okay. Not good.

Dr. Laurence was closest to me. I leaned to him. "What happened?" I asked softly. He started to answer, but Stratford's voice rang out instead. He had clearly anticipated my question.

"The Joker just attacked Dr. Fletcher."

I stared at him for a second as the information sank in, and then asked, "What? What happened to his restraints?

Stratford looked tenser than I'd ever seen him. "He was restrained as usual, but it didn't help. Ten minutes in, he threw his legs on the table and launched himself across at her, using the extra slack. He got her around the throat and pulled out a lot of hair."

"Is she okay?" asked Fitzhugh, her face twisted in a mixture of concern and repulsion.

Stratford sighed. "She'll be all right, but I doubt she'll be returning anytime soon."

Dr. Wilson spoke up from the corner where he was standing. "Other than that, how did the session go?" His voice was mild, and I had to look to make sure he was actually consciously joking.

Stratford didn't crack a smile. His forehead creased, and he scratched the table with a fingernail. "He was non-communicative for the first few minutes, then interrupted her mid-question to ask about Dr. Quinzel."

I tried not to react as everyone collectively glanced at me. I just watched Stratford, who was telling his story to the tabletop. "He wanted to know where she was, and Fletcher told him that she was preoccupied and so she'd be filling in. He seemed offended by that. She kept trying to get the session back on point, but he refused to let her change the subject—he just kept pushing until she finally told him firmly that Quinzel would work with him again when the Asylum decided it was the right time, and not a minute sooner. He laughed at her and then attacked."

There was a long pause, and I became aware that my breathing had picked up. It felt like fear, only… not. I realized, not without a certain degree of horror, that I was at least a little bit happy about this. Not that he had hurt Fletcher—no, that was awful, but… I couldn't help but feel just the tiniest bit satisfied that he had so completely rejected her, obviously in favor of me.

"So what do we do now?" asked Wilson finally. "Dr. Quinzel is the only one who's had any luck with him, but the fact that he's so fixed on her… it can't be good for his overall mental health."

"What mental health?" mumbled Dr. Laurence, but I was the only one close enough to him to catch it.

Wilson, at any rate, didn't act as if he'd heard. "I don't know if sending her in again is the best idea."

Stratford stared directly at me. "I agree," he said. "We want them to trust us, but to depend too much on a single person… it can cause problems down the road."

I cleared my throat, trying to will down the sudden surge of annoyance and keep my tone clear. "Granted, sir, but this isn't a long-term treatment—at least, not yet," I said clearly. "This is just a comprehensive analysis for the court, and respectfully I'd like to remind you that no one else has gotten more than a few insults out of him."

"Even so. I want to try a few other people first to make sure you're the only option we've got," he said, which did not help with the choking annoyance. Flattering, Doctor, I thought, trying not to glare at him.

All at once, though, a nurse came bursting into the room to throw a wrench in his oh-so-diplomatic plan. "Dr. Stratford," she said breathlessly, "the Joker is having a violent fit in his cell. He's doing harm to himself."

"What?" demanded Stratford. "I thought I ordered him handcuffed to the bed." Straitjackets, you see, were in short supply—at least, that was what the orderlies claimed. I found it interesting that not even the toughest orderly was eager to volunteer to force the Joker into one. Padded restraints were available, but they had to be brought in from the infirmary and I imagine Stratford had ordered for cuffs because they were the quickest option available after the incident with Fletcher.

"He is, sir," she said, sounding petrified. "He keeps jerking at the cuff. He's ripped the skin on his arm open already—"

"Why the hell haven't you sedated him?" snarled Stratford.

"We gave him a heavy dose of Thorazine when we first confined him," she said, sounding terrified. "It only seemed to trigger him. He's pushing through it, and mixing with another sedative or upping the dosage could be dangerous."

Stratford made a split second decision. "You," he snapped, pointing at me. "Go calm him down, now. Wilson, go with her. Stand outside and pull her out if you need to. You—" pointing at the nurse—"get another dose ready. If she can't calm him down, I want you to be ready to go in."

I didn't wait for him to finish issuing his orders. I bolted, Wilson hot on my heels, and took the elevator to the top floor.

His was the last cell on the left. I could hear the commotion coming from it, and waited with palpable impatience as Wilson keyed in the code. I admit that I peeked, but I was only able to garner the last two letters before the door unlocked.

Quickly, I fished my phone out of my pocket and turned it off—I knew the Joker was restrained, but I did not want to take chances. I held it out to Wilson. "Hold on to that for me, please?" He took it, attempting an encouraging smile. I smiled briefly back and didn't wait any longer. I flung the door open and went inside.