Vicki Pettersson - The Given

“Maybe Zicaro had an abrupt decline in health,” said Kit, while they waited. “Maybe Barbara just—”

“What? Stopped in to say good-bye?” Grif scoffed, and they fell silent, watching as a caregiver in all white pushed a wheelchair-bound resident on a path along the building’s side. The crisp blue sky did nothing to actually warm the day, and the resident had a blanket over her lap, while her caregiver remained careful to keep to the thin, straining sunlight.

Grif just rubbed his eyes. He might have been tucked into a place like this by now . . . if he hadn’t been killed first. It made him realize that no one was Surface-bound for long.

“This may require a new plan,” he said, and held out his hand for Kit’s smart phone. They had one—after another ten minutes and the use of the device’s map application—and when they finally climbed out of the car, Grif headed to the main entrance alone .

The double doors eased open like he was expected. He emerged directly into an open office area decorated with blue and yellow flowers so vibrant they were without parallel in the natural world, their plastic vases filled with clear marbles instead of water. A corkboard was splayed across the wall directly in front of him, community activities and photos displayed atop bright construction paper more suited to an elementary school than a nursing home. A sitting area with two chairs and a settee was anchored with a side table and yet more fake foliage. Two residents sat there but didn’t talk, and while one stared expectantly at Grif, the other didn’t notice him at all. A faint antiseptic smell permeated the whole place, and if Kit hadn’t told him he was in a building offering full-time health care, the scent alone would’ve done so.

“Good morning!” The cheerful voice rang from behind him and a woman emerged from a side office, moving smoothly behind the L-shaped desk. “How can I help you?”

Grif shoved his hands into his pockets and cleared his throat. “I’m here to see Mr. Zicaro.”

The receptionist’s name tag said ERIN, and she sat, giving Grif an ample shot of her full bosoms bursting beneath a low-cut sweater. “Family or friend?”

“Old friend.”

Erin gestured to the guest book, which Grif dutifully signed, catching sight of a surveillance camera over Erin’s left shoulder. They were everywhere these days; not like his first go-round on this mudflat. Too bad all they could reveal were actions and not motives.

Though in this case that might be a good thing, Grif thought, as Erin picked up the phone to ring Zicaro’s room.

“That’s okay,” Grif said, motioning for her to put the phone down. “I called earlier and he said to go on back. Room 128, right?” He took a few steps, like he was already on his way.

“No, um . . . room 238 actually, but you can’t go back yourself. All guests must be accompanied by a staff member.” She studied Grif, her bubblegum gloss momentarily fading, but smiled again when he just shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.

His view while he waited was that of a common area, obviously where the entire community gathered for their meals—three squares a day, if the notice on the bulletin board was correct. More lumpy chairs and a sofa clustered around a large television on the right, and a bank of curved windows sat beyond that, acting as a sunroom for the tropical plants scattered among dark wood chips along the wall.

Spotting a flash of stocking-clad legs outside the windows, Grif moved to block them, and looked behind him to see if Erin had noticed Kit, too. The woman just beamed at him, and held up a finger as she spoke into the receiver, mistaking his glance for impatience.

Grif turned back around. The rest of the room held dining tables, each spaced widely enough to allow wheelchair and walker access, while a wall to the left hid what was obviously the kitchen. Breakfast was over, but a lone woman sat at a table, her back rounded and chin down as she stared, unblinking, at the orange tablecloth before her. Grif waited for her to move, but she didn’t, and as he glanced around the empty space, despair carved a pit into his stomach.

Could Evie be in a place like this?

He’d once had a dream of her, a vision where she’d lamented being alone and that nobody came to visit. What if it hadn’t been a simple dream? The veil between this world and the Everlast was thin. What if she’d been calling out to him in her dreams, begging for help in the only way she could?

The image of Evie—blond and bright and dancing, her head thrown back and her red-tinted lips wide with laughter—blew through Grif’s mind. He actually jerked his head, unable to imagine her stripped of all that color, sitting in a home with fake rubber plants and food that likely tasted the same.

Grif gave the lone woman one last look, then returned to the reception area to gaze out the window. Kit’s Duetto sat silver and gleaming in the sun, and he used it like a lodestar to anchor his attention and settle his mind.

“Mr. Shaw?” The voice rose directly behind Grif, deep and booming, and he turned to find himself facing the widest chest he’d ever seen. Scanning arms like boulders, and a head that looked to be made of the same, Grif was tempted to scale the man. Unfortunately, he’d left all his climbing equipment back in the Everlast.

“I’m Mr. Allen,” the walking outcrop said, holding out his hand. “I’m Mr. Zicaro’s Life Enrichment Coordinator. I’ll escort you to his room.”

It was like shaking hands with a bear, and Grif discreetly flexed his fingers at his side once they were released. Turning, Mr. Allen motioned with his other paw for Grif to follow him across the dining room. Grif did so silently, noting that even as Allen’s shadow fell across the two residents, even when he gave a cheerful hello, they didn’t acknowledge him. He extended the same greeting to the lone woman in the dining area.

“That’s Martha,” Allen said softly once they’d passed. “She’s in her own little world. Many of the residents here are.”

Grif glanced back and was startled to catch Martha’s watery blue gaze, but then she shifted and he realized, no, she was looking right through him.

“Ya know, I think I’ll go wash my hands first before heading back,” Grif said suddenly. The impatience that flashed over Allen’s features was erased so quickly that Grif wasn’t sure he’d seen it, and he gestured back to the reception area with a smile. Grif accessed the restrooms there—stalling for time, hoping Kit was already with Zicaro—but he also needed the moment to splash water over his face and clear his head. To clear Martha’s vacant look from his mind.

Please, God. Don’t let Evie be in a place like this.

“I know Al will be happy to have a visitor,” Mr. Allen said as soon as Grif returned. If he noted the way Grif had paled, he said nothing as he led him to the residents’ hallway. “Not one person has stopped by in the time he’s been here.”

“I just got back in town,” Grif said, and realized he sounded defensive.

Allen just nodded, lips pursed. Lonely tenants were likely nothing new. “Mind if we take the stairs?” he asked. He was obviously a man who valued his exercise.

Their footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell, and Grif wondered how a place teeming with people could feel so empty. When they reached the second-floor landing, they stepped into a hall identical to the one below. “This floor is obviously reserved for our more agile residents. Al has lost a few steps, but don’t worry. He’s kept his zing.”

Remembering what he did of Al Zicaro, Grif wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. He just hoped there wasn’t anything wrong with Zicaro’s ticker. If he recognized Grif as the man he’d reported on fifty years earlier, he might just have a heart attack.