Rook remained by the door.
Dr. Samuel Whitaker watched him from the opposite side of the bed. He had aged since the night he saved Michael Mercer. His white hair had thinned, and one hand trembled slightly when he was tired, but his eyes were unchanged.
“You got bigger,” Whitaker said.
“You got older.”
“That happens when you wait twelve years.”
Rook’s jaw tightened.
I did not understand the remark then.
Whitaker explained that he had retired from full-time surgical work three years earlier after developing arthritis in his right hand. He no longer operated, but he volunteered as a neurological recovery consultant on complex pediatric cases.
Lucy was the reason he had returned.
Her initial injuries had been severe: diffuse axonal damage, swelling, multiple fractures, and complications that nearly killed her twice. Most physicians agreed that further treatment would preserve her body without restoring meaningful awareness.
Whitaker disagreed.
