Page 103 of Deliverance

“Okay.” Santiago sighs. “But call me if you change your mind. “I’ll pick you up.”

“Thanks.” I grab my bag and slip out of the car.

“Be careful.”

Just as I expected, the nurse at the check-in desk refuses to give out information about Zander’s whereabouts, and for a while, I just roam around the hospital, reading signs and watching people.

This was a bad idea. The worst.

Finding one person in a building filled with thousands is like looking for a needle in a haystack.

Fifteen minutes into my traipse, I spy a man clad in all black pacing in the hallway with his phone stuck to his ear. His expression—cranky and hard—is what gives him away.

Heart pounding, I start my approach. “Excuse me.”

The man’s curly head snaps toward me, a sharp line wrinkling his forehead.

“Do you know if Zander’s on this floor?” I don’t use his last name. It feels like something a fan would say.

“How did you get in here?” the man barks. “You need to leave or I’ll call security.” He flings his wrist at the nurse at her station. There’s so much impatience in this gesture.

“I’m a friend of Hazel’s,” I say. “Drew.”

He draws the phone away from his ear and his eyes slowly scan me from head to toe. “Hazel didn’t mention anything.”

“I just found out.”

“Hmm.” The man abruptly ends the calls. “Wait here.” Then he walks off.

I’m left alone in the middle of the hallway and my mind begins to run in place. I can’t explain what exactly pushed me to come to the hospital.

Was it really just worry?

The man returns shortly, his face now the epitome of friendliness. “I’m sorry I went off on you,” he says apologetically. “We had some rabid fan sneak in last night. Let’s just say, I’m a little on edge.”

“I can imagine.” I force a smile and carefully take in the man’s attire. His silk shirt and slacks are a tight fit and he sticks out like a sore thumb.

“I’m Ian, Zander’s manager,” he introduces himself, extending his hand.

I clasp it and give it a curt shake. “Are you the one handling his Facebook?”

“Sometimes.” He quickly changes the topic. “I saw your work. It’s very gripping.”

“Thank you.”

“Follow me.”

We walk along the corridor and turn the corner, where I spot a small group of people in the waiting area, all frazzled, all unfamiliar. A few gazes land on me as Ian escorts me to the room at the very end of the hall.

He knocks a few times, then pushes the door open and Zander’s voice spills out from behind the curtain.

“…going to keep me here another day, I’ll escape through the window.”

“We’re on the third floor,” a female retorts, followed by the puffing of what must be the blood pressure monitor cuff.

“I’m a great athlete.”

“You have a cracked rib and a concussion.”

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