nothing happened. Every part of Hector’s body was betraying him, all the things he never thought to doubt. He apologized to Maria, then, with his hands shaking, his eyes blurry, and his breathing labored, he went out to the stoop and sat alone in the chilly night. When he saw the first planes swooping in from overhead, signaling another dawn without sleep, Hector felt something else he hadn’t in years: the urge to cry.
He heard a voice coming from somewhere behind him. Who the hell was in his house at five o’clock in the morning? Hector stormed back into the kitchen. It took him a second to process who in the hell the man standing there was.
It was
the birdman
. The birdman was at Hector’s dinner table.
“What are you doing in my house?” Hector demanded.
“Get out!”
The birdman stood up, and before the man could respond, Hector threw a quick blow across his chin, knocking him onto the floor.
Maria ran into the room.
“What did you do?”
she screamed. “Why did you hit him?”
When Hector pointed at the birdman to try to explain, nothing made sense. The crumpled person on the floor was Ernesto, looking back at him in shock.
“Papa,”
the boy cried.
Hector felt as if he might vomit. Long ago he’d sworn to Maria he’d never take his anger out on her or their son the way his father had on him. She started flailing at him. He wasn’t even thinking as he threw his wife to the floor.
The last time Maria Gutierrez saw her husband, he was running down the street toward the Ford Explorer.
NINE
E VERY CORNER OF THE PRESBYTERIAN ER WAS FILLED WITH TRAUMA patients. Stanton hurried through the aftermath of the highway accident. Bumping into techs. Knocking over crash carts. Frantically searching for the man who caused this. Car accidents were common in FFI case reports; in one German case, it was the first sign that the insomnia had become complete. From a witness’s perspective it appeared the driver had fallen asleep on the autobahn.
Stanton ripped back curtain after curtain in the overwhelmed ER, behind which he saw unsupervised surgical residents performing operations they had no business attempting and nurses making medical decisions alone because there weren’t enough doctors. The one thing he didn’t see was anyone who could tell him who caused the accident and whether the person had been brought here.
Stanton stopped and scanned the room. Two paramedics stood across the bay, conscripted into service because the hospital was so understaffed.
He ran over. They were squeezing oxygen through a patient’s mask. “Were you guys on the scene? Who caused the accident?”
“Latino guy,” one of them said.
“Where is he? Here?”
“Look for a John Doe.”
Stanton studied the patient board. Another John Doe? Even if there was no ID on the driver, they should’ve tracked his car already.
Near the bottom of the board, he found an unnamed patient. He darted back toward curtain 14. Tore it open. There was a flurry of motion inside—doctors yelling orders and moaning coming from the bloody, writhing man.
“I have to talk to him.” Stanton flashed his CDC ID.
They looked confused but gave him room to approach.
He leaned close to the man’s ear. “Sir, have you had trouble sleeping?”
No answer.
“Have you been sick, sir?”
The monitors beeped loudly. “His pressure’s falling,” warned one of the nurses.
An ER doc pushed Stanton out of the way. Injected the man’s IV with more drugs. They all watched the monitor. Pressure continued to drop as the man’s heart slowed.
“Crash cart!” yelled the other doctor.
“Sir!” Stanton called out from behind them. “What is your name?”
“Ernesto had his face,” the driver groaned finally. “I didn’t mean to hit him.…”
“Please,” Stanton said, “your name!”
The driver’s eyes flickered. “I thought Ernesto was the birdman. The birdman did this to me.”
These words sent a shiver through Stanton that he
He heard a voice coming from somewhere behind him. Who the hell was in his house at five o’clock in the morning? Hector stormed back into the kitchen. It took him a second to process who in the hell the man standing there was.
It was
the birdman
. The birdman was at Hector’s dinner table.
“What are you doing in my house?” Hector demanded.
“Get out!”
The birdman stood up, and before the man could respond, Hector threw a quick blow across his chin, knocking him onto the floor.
Maria ran into the room.
“What did you do?”
she screamed. “Why did you hit him?”
When Hector pointed at the birdman to try to explain, nothing made sense. The crumpled person on the floor was Ernesto, looking back at him in shock.
“Papa,”
the boy cried.
Hector felt as if he might vomit. Long ago he’d sworn to Maria he’d never take his anger out on her or their son the way his father had on him. She started flailing at him. He wasn’t even thinking as he threw his wife to the floor.
The last time Maria Gutierrez saw her husband, he was running down the street toward the Ford Explorer.
NINE
E VERY CORNER OF THE PRESBYTERIAN ER WAS FILLED WITH TRAUMA patients. Stanton hurried through the aftermath of the highway accident. Bumping into techs. Knocking over crash carts. Frantically searching for the man who caused this. Car accidents were common in FFI case reports; in one German case, it was the first sign that the insomnia had become complete. From a witness’s perspective it appeared the driver had fallen asleep on the autobahn.
Stanton ripped back curtain after curtain in the overwhelmed ER, behind which he saw unsupervised surgical residents performing operations they had no business attempting and nurses making medical decisions alone because there weren’t enough doctors. The one thing he didn’t see was anyone who could tell him who caused the accident and whether the person had been brought here.
Stanton stopped and scanned the room. Two paramedics stood across the bay, conscripted into service because the hospital was so understaffed.
He ran over. They were squeezing oxygen through a patient’s mask. “Were you guys on the scene? Who caused the accident?”
“Latino guy,” one of them said.
“Where is he? Here?”
“Look for a John Doe.”
Stanton studied the patient board. Another John Doe? Even if there was no ID on the driver, they should’ve tracked his car already.
Near the bottom of the board, he found an unnamed patient. He darted back toward curtain 14. Tore it open. There was a flurry of motion inside—doctors yelling orders and moaning coming from the bloody, writhing man.
“I have to talk to him.” Stanton flashed his CDC ID.
They looked confused but gave him room to approach.
He leaned close to the man’s ear. “Sir, have you had trouble sleeping?”
No answer.
“Have you been sick, sir?”
The monitors beeped loudly. “His pressure’s falling,” warned one of the nurses.
An ER doc pushed Stanton out of the way. Injected the man’s IV with more drugs. They all watched the monitor. Pressure continued to drop as the man’s heart slowed.
“Crash cart!” yelled the other doctor.
“Sir!” Stanton called out from behind them. “What is your name?”
“Ernesto had his face,” the driver groaned finally. “I didn’t mean to hit him.…”
“Please,” Stanton said, “your name!”
The driver’s eyes flickered. “I thought Ernesto was the birdman. The birdman did this to me.”
These words sent a shiver through Stanton that he
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