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phenomenon these days, but in reality, most people have no idea who they really are. Do you know who you are, Christy?”
    The question threw her into a momentary tailspin. A part of her wanted to tell him everything about herself—maybe he could help her. But she put the compulsion aside and took a calming breath.
    “I’m Christy Snow. I live at 456 Blanard Drive, and I need to get home to feed my cat.”
    He smiled. “All right. I’ll get you home. You can wait in our lounge while we run a quick inventory and check out your story.”

 

     
    AUSTIN HESITATED as he approached the alleyway. Glanced at his watch. Thirty-two minutes. It’d taken longer than he hoped to get here, but there was time.
    He’d decided to check the storage room because it was, one, on his way to his doctor’s office in the hospital and, two, a logical context for her urgent call.
    He’d eliminated his apartment quickly. Or hers for that matter. It was possible she’d hurt herself and couldn’t reach a landline or cry out for a passerby’s attention, but highly unlikely.
    Given the fact that they’d been at the storage room last night, and its relative isolation, he would at least check. That her message had been cut off midsentence concerned him the most. Probably a dead battery, but what if someone had taken the phone from her?
    If there was one person that he identified with, it was Christy. They were about as similar as fish and fowl, but they were both loners and they shared a similar history.
    Truth was, he found her emotional approach to life more interesting than annoying. She was one person he honestly felt he could help. The fact that she was attractive didn’t hurt. The thought of harm coming to her unnerved him as much as the thought of the tumor in his head. Assuming he had a tumor.
    He looked down the street.
    Saint Matthew’s Hospital was in sight, just two blocks away. The sprawling complex rose above the madness of city life. The austerity of its modern steel-and-glass exterior was simple but impressive, an architectural citadel of reason that gazed upon the world with detached indifference. Inside, the finest minds in medical science relentlessly pursued empirical facts.
    Like Austin, they valued data above all else—radically impersonal and objective answers, however harsh they turned out to be.
    He could attest to that himself.
    Fact: His headaches had become more intense and frequent in the past seventeen days, and meds had a decreasing impact on his symptoms. Likely the result of a tumor forming beneath his skull, but that wasn’t yet fact.
    Fact: All diagnostic tests had been inconclusive until now, but inside in his doctor’s office sat a man about to tell him if he was going to live or die.
    Fact: Christy had called him, but he didn’t yet know why.
    He veered left, leaving the sidewalk, and entered the alley that separated the shops from the hospital.
    “Austin… I’m trapped in your…”
    The desperate sound of her voice hung in his mind. He passed the dumpsters and angled for the door.
    With each step the pain in his head grew worse. How long had it been since his last meds? An hour? The intensity was likely psychosomatic, a result of obsessing about his test results. Put under continued stress, the mind could create physical conditions within the body to match the thought patterns—a sort of self-fulfilling prophecy.
    Screw it .
    He stuck his hand into his jeans pocket and withdrew two pills, which he didn’t bother bagging anymore, then swallowed them.
    He pulled up in front of the old battered door and fingered the crack where he kept the makeshift key.
    Gone?
    He peered into the crack, suddenly alarmed. Christy was the only other person who knew where the key was.
    Austin reached the door and tested the knob. It twisted easily in his hand. He leaned into the door and pushed into the musty room. It fell shut behind him.
    Austin scanned the room. The light was on. He was meticulous about shutting