EPTEMBER 5, 8:12 P.M.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“Door!” Kowalski yelled from the rear.

Gray skidded to a stop and glanced behind him. Elizabeth Polk held out her lighter and revealed a small doorway, hidden two steps off the dark tunnel. Gray had rushed past it, too focused on the roof, searching for a street exit from the service tunnels.

Behind them, calls echoed from the searchers. A single harsh bark rang out as the trackers found their trail again. Gray had crisscrossed among tunnels, trying to lose them, but it proved fruitless, and they were losing ground.

Kowalski reached to the door and fought the handle. “Locked.” He punched the metal surface in frustration.

Coming up to his side, Gray noted an electronic key-lock below the handle. The lighter’s flame flickered across a small steel sign stenciled in Art Deco letters:

NATIONAL MUSEUM OF AMERICAN HISTORY

The door was a subterranean entrance to another of the Smithsonian Institution’s museums. Closest to the door, Elizabeth swiped her museum security card, but the lock remained dark. To make sure, Kowalski tugged the handle and shook his head.

“My card’s only good for the natural history museum,” Elizabeth said. “But I hoped—”

A fierce bark drew their attention around. The bobbling glow of flashlights lit up the far end of the tunnel.

“Better move it,” Kowalski said and stepped away from the door.

A shotgun blast erupted. Something sparked off the metal surface, striking where Kowalski had stood a second before. The round ricocheted off the door and spun across the cement floor, spitting blue sparks of electricity.

Kowalski danced away from it, like an elephant from a mouse.

Gray recognized the payload: a Taser XREP. Fired from a standard twelve-gauge, the weapon shot out a self-contained, wireless dart that packed a shocking neuromuscular jolt. It could drop a mountain gorilla.

“HOMELAND SECURITY! HALT OR WE’LL FIRE AGAIN!”

“Now they warn us,” Kowalski said and lifted his arms above his head.

Half hidden behind his partner’s bulk, Gray twisted around and swiped his black Sigma identification card through the key-lock. A small green light flicked into existence alongside the lock.

Thank God.

“HANDS ON YOUR HEADS. GET ON YOUR KNEES!”

Gray shoved the handle, and the door cracked open. It was dark beyond. Reaching behind him, he grabbed Elizabeth’s elbow. She flinched, then saw the half-open door. She, in turn, reached out and grabbed the back of Kowalski’s belt. He had his hands on his head and had been bending down to kneel.

He glanced back to them.

Gray shouldered the door open and pulled Elizabeth with him. Yanked off balance, Kowalski stumbled to one knee—then pushed off the floor and dove after them through the doorway.

Gray heard another blast of a shotgun.

Kowalski knocked into them and sent them sprawling across the dark stairs beyond the threshold. His other leg kicked the door shut—and kept kicking. “—oddamnmotherfu—!” he wailed between clenched teeth.

Gray spotted the sparking projectile impaled through the shoe of the man’s spasming leg. Elizabeth did, too. She climbed over him, pinned his ankle, and crushed the Taser shell under her shoe heel.

Kowalski’s leg continued to twitch for another breath, then stopped.

His cursing did not.

Gray stood and held out an arm to help him up. “You’re lucky it hit your shoe. The leather blunted the barbs from penetrating deeply.”

“Lucky!” Kowalski bent and rubbed the stabs through the polished leather. “Assholes ruined my new Chukkas!”

Muffled shouts approached the doorway.

“C’mon,” Gray urged and headed up.

Kowalski continued to gripe as they ran up the stairs. “Crowe’s buying me a new pair!”

Gray ignored him as he raced up the stairs.

Kowalski’s tirade continued. “Just leave the monkey skull down there. Let ’em have the goddamn thing.”

“No!” rang from both Elizabeth and Gray.

Gray heard the anger in the woman’s voice. It matched his own. Her father had died to keep the skull from his pursuers. Died in Gray’s arms. He wasn’t about to give it up.

They hit the upper stairwell door. It was locked, too. Pounding echoed on the door below. It wouldn’t take long for someone to secure a pass-key.

“Over here,” Elizabeth said and pointed to the darkened card reader.

Gray swiped his security I.D. and heard the lock release. He glanced behind him as he pushed the door open. Surely word was already spreading. Whoever was hunting them would know they were fleeing into the Museum of American History.

Gray led them out into a lighted hall. It was almost a match to the basement of the natural history museum, except here there were stacks of boxes in the hallway, crowding the way. Gray tested his own radio, but he still had no signal, buried too deeply under the museum.

“This way,” he said and aimed for a stairway that led up.

They almost bowled over an electrician in a work uniform, weighted down with a roll of conduit over his shoulder and a heavy belt of tools.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re go—!”

Something he saw in Gray’s expression silenced him. He backed out of the way and flattened against the wall. They hurried past him and upward. The farther they climbed, the more chaos they encountered: clusters of workmen, stripped walls, tangles of exposed ductwork. Reaching the next landing, they had to dodge around piles of Sheetrock and flats of stacked marble tiles. The growl of motors and whine of saws echoed from the doorway ahead. The air smelled of fresh paint and tasted of sawdust.

Gray recalled that the Museum of American History had been undergoing a massive renovation, updating its forty-year-old infrastructure, all to better showcase its three million historical treasures, from Abraham Lincoln’s top hat to Dorothy’s ruby slippers. The museum had been closed to the public for the past two years but was due to open next month.

From the look of things as Gray entered the museum’s central atrium, the grand reopening might be delayed. Plastic sheeting draped almost every surface; scaffolding climbed the three-story core of the renovation. Grand staircases swept from the first floor to the second. Directly overhead a massive skylight was still sheeted with paper.

Gray grabbed the nearest worker, a carpenter whose face was half covered by a respirator. “The exit! Where’s the nearest exit?”

The man squinted at him. “The Constitution Avenue exit is closed. You’ll have to climb to the second level. Head out the main Mall entrance.” He pointed to the staircase.

Gray glanced to Elizabeth, who nodded. They walked out as a group. Gray checked his radio again. Still nothing. Something or someone had to be blocking his signal.

They raced to the stairs and pounded up to the second level. It was less chaotic up here. The green marble floor looked freshly mopped, highlighting the silver stars embedded therein. Gray had a clear view from the central atrium to the glass doors of the Mall exit. He needed to make it out before—

Too late.

A knot of men bearing assault rifles swept into view outside the doors. They wore dark uniforms with patches at their shoulders.

Gray forced Kowalski and Elizabeth back.

Behind them, a growled bark echoed up from the first floor. Workers shouted in surprise.

“What now?” Kowalski asked.

From the Mall entrance, a bullhorn blasted. “HOMELAND SECURITY! THE BUILDING IS TO BE EVACUATED IMMEDIATELY! EVERYONE TO THE MAIN EXIT!”

“This way,” Gray said.

He led them off to the side, toward the largest piece of art on this floor’s gallery. The installation was an abstract flag, made up of fifteen ribbons of mirrored polycarbonate.

“We can’t keep running,” Elizabeth said.

“We’re not.”

“So we’re hiding?” Kowalski asked. “What about their dogs?”

“We’re not running or hiding,” Gray assured them.

He passed the shimmering flag. Its mirrored surface reflected a prismatic view of the museum. In bits and pieces, Gray saw the armed detail take up an impenetrable cordon across the only exit.

Passing one of the scaffoldings stacked with supplies and spare coveralls, Gray grabbed what he needed. He passed a few bundles to Kowalski. He kept what he needed himself: a can of paint and a plastic gallon of paint thinner. He headed into the hallway under the abstract flag. Kowalski read the gallery sign at the entrance and whistled under his breath.

“Pierce, what are you planning on doing?”

Gray led the way into the heart of the museum’s most treasured exhibits. It was the main reason for the entire renovation. They entered a long darkened hall. Seats lined one side opposite a wall of paneled glass on the other. Even the chaos behind them seemed to muffle under the weight of the historical treasure preserved behind the glass, one of the nation’s most important icons. It lay unfurled on a sloped display, a tatter of cotton and wool a quarter the size of a football field. Its dyes had faded, but it remained a dramatic piece of American history, the flag that inspired the national anthem.

“Pierce…?” Kowalski moaned, beginning to comprehend. “That’s the Star-Spangled Banner.”

Gray placed the can of paint on the floor and began to twist open the cap on the gallon of highly flammable paint thinner.

“Pierce…you can’t mean to…not even as a distraction.”

Ignoring him, Gray turned to Elizabeth. “Do you still have your lighter?”

8:32 P.M.

Sitting in the security office of the National Zoo, Yuri felt the weight of his seventy-seven years. All the androgens, stimulants, and surgeries could not mask the heaviness of his heart. A numbing fear had turned his limbs to aching lead; worry etched deeper lines in his face.

“We’ll find your granddaughter,” the head of security had promised him. “We have the park closed down. Everyone is looking for her.”

Yuri had been left in the office with a blond young woman who could be no older than twenty-five. She wore the khaki safari uniform of a zoo employee. Her name tag read TABITHA. She seemed nervous in his presence, unsure how to cope with his despair. She stood, coming out from behind the desk.

“Is there anyone you’d like to call? Another relative?”

Yuri lifted his head. He studied her for a breath. Her apple-cheeked youth…the years ahead of her. He realized he’d been little older than the girl when he’d stumbled out of the rattling truck into the highlands of the Carpathian mountains. He wished he had never found that Gypsy camp.

“Would you like to use the phone?” she asked.

He slowly nodded. “Da.” He could not put it off any longer. He’d already alerted Mapplethorpe, not so much to report to him, as to gain the cooperation of the D.C. policing authorities. But the man had been distracted, busy hunting down what had been stolen. Mapplethorpe had mentioned something about Dr. Polk’s daughter. But Yuri no longer cared. Still, Mapplethorpe had promised to raise an Amber Alert for the missing child. All D.C. resources and outlying counties would be alerted. She had to be found.

Sasha…

Her round face and bright blue eyes filled his vision. He should never have left her side. He prayed she had just wandered off. But among a park full of wild animals, even that best scenario was not without its dangers. Worse yet, had someone taken her, abducted her? In her current state, she would be pliable, easily suggestible. Yuri was well familiar with the number of pedophiles out there. They’d even had trouble at the Warren with some of their early employees. There had been so many children, too many. Mistakes had happened.

But not all of the abuses had been mistakes.

He shied from this last thought.

Tabitha carried over a portable telephone.

Yuri shook his head and took out his own cell phone. “Thank you, but it is a long-distance call,” he explained. “To Russia. To her grandmother. I’ll use my own phone.”

Tabitha nodded and backed away. “I’ll give you your privacy.” She stepped into a neighboring office.

Alone, Yuri dialed the number into his international cell phone. A small chip developed by Russian intelligence would bounce the signal off several cell towers, making it untraceable, along with scrambling the communication.

He had dreaded making this call, but he could wait no longer. The Warren had to be alerted, but it was very early in the morning back there. Not even four o’clock. Still, the phone was answered promptly, the voice curt and sharp.

“What is it?”

Yuri pictured the woman at the other end of the line, his immediate superior, Dr. Savina Martov. The two had discovered the children together, begun the Warren as a team, but Martov’s ties to the former KGB had pulled her above Yuri in command. There was a saying in Russia: No one left the KGB. And despite what Western leaders might think, that did not exclude the current Russian president. The man still surrounded himself with ex-members of Soviet intelligence. Major contracts were still placed in the hands of former operatives.

And Dr. Savina Martov was no exception.

“Savina, we have a major problem here,” he said in Russian.

He imagined her face frosting over. Like Yuri, she had also undergone hormonal, surgical, and cosmetic treatments, but she had fared even better than Yuri. Her hair was still dark, her features hardly blemished. She could pass for forty years old. Yuri suspected why. She did not battle that same knot of guilt that soured his gut. The sureness of her vision and purpose shone out of her face. Only when one looked in her eyes was the deception ruined. No amount of treatments would mask the cold calculation found there.

“You’ve still not found what was stolen from us?” she asked in harsh tones. “I’ve already heard that Polk has been eliminated. So then why—?”

“It’s Sasha. She’s gone missing.”

A long silence stretched.

“Savina, did you hear me?”

“Yes. I just had a report in from one of the dormitory workers. It’s why I’m up so early. They discovered three empty beds.”

“Who? Which children?”

“Konstantin, his sister Kiska, and Pyotr.”

Savina continued her report, how a search was under way across the Warren, but her voice grew hollow, echoing as if out of a deep well as Yuri had fixated on the last name.

Pyotr. Peter.

He was Sasha’s twin brother.

“When?” he blurted out. “When did the three rebyonka go missing?”

Savina sighed harshly. “They were there at the last bed check according to the matron on duty. So sometime in the last hour.”

Yuri glanced to his wristwatch.

Around the time Sasha vanished.

Was it just a coincidence, or had Pyotr somehow sensed his twin sister’s danger? Had it set the boy into a panic? But Pyotr had never shown such talent before. His empathic scores were high—especially with animals—but he’d never shown any of his sister’s abilities. Still, as twins, they were closer than any brother and sister. In fact, they still shared their own special language, an incomprehensible twin speak.

As Yuri clutched the phone to his ear, he suspected something more sinister was happening, that unknown forces—possibly an unknown hand—were manipulating events.

But whose?

Savina barked at him, drawing back his attention. “Find that girl,” she ordered. “Before it’s too late. You know what happens in two days.”

Yuri knew that only too well. It was what they had worked decades to accomplish, why they had performed so many acts of cruelty. All in order to—

A door slammed to the side. Yuri twisted around. The head of zoo security had returned. His tanned face was dour, lined with concern and worry.

Yuri spoke into the phone. “I’ll find her,” he said firmly, but the promise was more to himself than to his icy superior. He clicked off the line and faced the tall man, switching to English. “Has there been any sign of my granddaughter?”

“I’m afraid not. We’ve swept the park. So far no sign of her.”

Yuri felt a sinking in his gut.

A hesitation entered the security chief’s voice. “But I must tell you. There was a report of a girl matching your granddaughter’s description being carried into a van near the south exit.”

Yuri stood up, his eyes widening.

A hand raised, urging patience. “The D.C. police are following up on that. It might be a false lead. There’s not much more we can do.”

“There must be more.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Also on the way back here, I was informed that someone at the FBI has arranged an escort. They should be here any moment. They’ll take you back to your hotel.”

Yuri sensed the hand of Mapplethorpe involved with this last arrangement. “Thank you. For all your help.” Yuri crossed to the door and reached for the handle. “I…I need some fresh air.”

“Certainly. There’s a bench just outside.”

Yuri exited the security office. He spotted the park bench, crossed toward it, but once out of view of the office window, he continued past the bench and strode toward the park exit.

Yuri could not put himself into Mapplethorpe’s control. Not even now. The fool knew only a fraction of what was going on, just enough to keep the interest of United States intelligence organizations whetted. They had no suspicion how the world would change in the next few days.

He had to find Sasha before Mapplethorpe did.

And there was only one way to do that.

As he exited the park through a cordon of police, he dialed his cell phone, again engaging the encryption. As before, it was answered promptly, this time by an answering machine.

“You’ve reached the national switchboard for Argo, Inc. Please leave a message…”

Argo, Inc. was the cover for the Jasons. The pseudonym—Argo—was selected because it was the name of Jason’s ship out of Greek mythology.

Yuri shook his head at such foolishness as he waited for the beep. He had murdered one of their own just hours ago. Now he needed the help of the secretive cabal of American scientists. And he knew how to get it. Going back to the Cold War, the two sides had been waging a clandestine battle for technological supremacy, each side supported by their respective military establishments and intelligence communities. The tools of war were not just intellectual, but also involved more nefarious means: sabotage, coercion, blackmail. But likewise, being men and women of science, each side operated independently of the military. Over the decades, they had come to recognize two things: there was occasionally common ground between them, but more important, there was a firm line neither side would cross.

When such a scenario arose, a means of communication had been established, a panic button. Speaking into the phone, Yuri gave his encrypted cell number, followed by a code word that traced back to the Cold War.

“Pandora.”

8:38 P.M.

Smoke billowed out the hall of the Star-Spangled Banner gallery.

Gray kept his group clustered in the vestibule just off the central atrium of the museum. They had pulled painters coveralls over their street clothes and covered their faces with respirators. Gray had also splashed paint on their clothes.

He leaned and stared back into the flag gallery. Smoke burned his eyes, but he spotted the flames dancing and racing across the pools of paint thinner he’d spilled across the gallery’s wood floor. A moment later, emergency sprinklers engaged. Water jetted in a flood from ceiling spigots. An alarm klaxon rang out sharply.

Gray took an additional moment to make sure that the glass-enclosed display for the banner remained dry. He knew the display was an environmentally controlled chamber meant to preserve the icon for generations to come. For now, the case should protect the flag from the smoke and water.

Satisfied the treasure was safe, Gray turned his attention to the central atrium. Fresh shouts and cries echoed as smoke panicked the workers. The contractors were already on edge with the spreading word of a bomb scare.

And now the fire alarm and smoke.

Gray peeked around the vestibule’s exit and into the atrium.

Already summoned by the bullhorn to proceed to this single exit, men and women milled and pushed. Many hauled tools and backpacks. Panic surged the crowd toward the doors, where the armed men had been conducting a systematic search of each exiting worker, including being scented by a pair of German shepherds.

“Let’s go,” Gray said.

Under the cover of smoke and terror, the three joined the pressing throng. They split up to make it less likely they’d be recognized through their disguises. As they joined the panicked mass, it was like jumping into a storm-swept sea along a rocky coast. Pushed, shoved, jabbed, and jostled, Gray still kept a watch on the others.

The evacuating workers surged toward the doors. Despite the press, the armed men kept some semblance of order outside. Searches continued, but more cursory and swift. The dogs barked and tugged at their leads, aroused by the noise and confusion.

Gray gripped his shoulder bag tighter, hugging its weight to his chest. If need be, he could bull through the armed line, like a linebacker making a rush for the goal.

To the side, Gray spotted Elizabeth being shoved through a door and into the arms of one of the guards. She was brusquely searched and urged to move on. She passed one of the dogs, who barked and tugged at its lead. But it had not recognized her scent. The dog was merely agitated and confused by the press of people. Fresh paint and smoke also helped mask Elizabeth’s scent. She stumbled away from the cordon of men and out into the national Mall’s twilight.

Off on the other side, Kowalski hit the line next. To aid in his disguise, he carried a gallon of paint in each hand, which he was mostly using to knock people out of his way. He also was searched. Even the cans of paint were opened.

Gray held his breath. Not good. The panic was not disrupting the search as much as he would have liked.

Passing inspection, Kowalski was waved out into the Mall.

Gray pushed out the door and met the palm of one of the guards.

“Arms up!” he was ordered. The command was bolstered as another guard leveled a weapon at his chest.

Hands searched him swiftly. From head to toe. Luckily, he had stashed his ankle holster and weapon back in the gallery’s trash can.

Still…

“Open your bag!”

Gray knew there was no way he could resist. He dropped the bag and unzipped it. He pulled out the only thing it held: a small electric sander. The rest of the bag was shaken to make sure it was empty—then Gray was waved out of the way.

As he passed the barking dog, Gray noted a man standing to the side, dressed in a suit. No body armor. He had a Bluetooth headset fixed to his ear. He was barking orders, plainly in charge. Gray also remembered seeing him at the dock of the natural history museum.

Passing him, Gray spotted the credentials affixed to his jacket pocket.

DIA.

Defense Intelligence Agency.

Gray noted the name in bold type: MAPPLETHORPE.

Before his attention was noticed, Gray continued out into the Mall. He circumspectly joined the others well away from the museum and the confusion, just a trio of workers reuniting. Gray retaped his radio’s throat mike under his jaw. He attempted to raise Sigma Command.

Finally, a familiar voice responded.

“Gray! Where are you?”

It was Painter Crowe.

“No time to explain,” Gray said. “I need an unmarked car at the corner of Fourteenth and Constitution.”

“It’ll be there.”

As he headed toward the extraction point, Gray held out a hand toward Kowalski.

The large man passed over one of the gallons of paint. “Just carrying the thing creeps me out.”

Gray accepted the paint can with relief. Submerged at the bottom lay hidden the strange skull. Gray had chanced that no one would explore too closely the depths of the thick latex paint, especially carried by a worker whose coveralls were splashed with the same paint. Once the skull was cleaned, maybe they’d finally have some answers.

“We made it,” Elizabeth said with a ring of relief.

Gray did not comment.

He knew this was far from over.

Halfway around the world, a man awoke in a dark, windowless room. A few small lights shone from a neighboring bank of equipment. He recognized the blink and beat of an EKG monitor. His nose caught a whiff of disinfectant and iodine. Dazed, he sat up too quickly. The few lights swam, like darting fish in a midnight sea.

The sight stirred something buried. A memory.

…lights in dark water…

He struggled to sit up, but his elbows were secured to the railings of the bed. A hospital bed. He could not even pull his arms free of the bedsheet. Weak, he lay back down.

Have I been in an accident?

As he took a breath, he sensed someone watching him, a prickling warning. Turning his head, he vaguely made out the outline of a doorway. A dark shape stirred at the threshold. A shoe scraped on tile. Then a furtive whisper. In a foreign language. Russian, from the sound of it.

“Who’s there?” he asked hoarsely. His throat burned, as if he had swallowed acid.

Silence. The darkness went deathly still.

He waited, holding his breath.

Then a flash of light bloomed near the doorway. It blinded, stung. He instinctively tried to raise a hand to shield his eyes, forgetting his arms were still secured to the bed.

He blinked away the glare. The flash came from a tiny penlight. The shine revealed three small figures slinking into his room. They were all children. A boy—twelve or thirteen—held the light and shielded a girl maybe a year or two younger. They were followed by a smaller boy who could be no more than eight years old. They approached his bed as if nearing a lion’s den.

The taller boy, plainly the leader, swung to the younger one. He whispered in Russian, unintelligible but plainly a concerned inquiry. He called the younger boy a name. It sounded like Peter. The child nodded, pointed to the bed, and mumbled in Russian with a ring of certainty to his words.

Stirring in the bed, he finally rasped out, “Who are you? What do you want?”

The taller boy shushed him with a glare and glanced toward the open doorway. The children then split up and crossed around the bed. The leader and the girl began freeing the straps that bound his limbs. The smaller boy held back, eyes wide. Like his companions, the child was dressed in loose pants and a dark gray turtleneck sweater with a vest over it, along with a matching cable-knit hat. The boy stared straight at him, unnervingly so, as if reading something on his forehead.

With his arms freed, he sat up. The room swam again, but not as much as before. He ran his hand over his head, trying to steady himself. Under his palm, he found his scalp smooth and a prickly line of sutures behind his left ear, confirming this supposition. Had he been shaved for surgery? Still, as his palm ran across the smooth top of his head, the sensation felt somehow familiar, natural.

Before he could ponder this contradiction, he pulled his other hand into view. Or rather tried to. His other arm ended in a stump at the wrist. His heart thudded harder in shock. He must’ve been in a horrible accident. His remaining hand trailed across the tender sutures behind his ear, as if trying to read Braille. Obviously a recent surgery. But his wrist was calloused and long healed. Still, he could almost sense his missing fingers. Felt them curl into a phantom fist of frustration.

The taller boy stepped back from the bed. “Come,” he said in English.

From the clandestine nature of his release and furtive actions of his liberators, he sensed some amount of danger. Dressed in a thin hospital gown, he rolled his feet to the cold tiled floor. The room tilted with the motion.

Whoa…

A small groan of nausea escaped him.

“Hurry,” the taller boy urged.

“Wait,” he said, gulping air to settle his stomach. “Tell me what is going on.”

“No time.” The tall boy stepped away. He was gangly, all limbs. He attempted to sound authoritative, but the cracking in his voice betrayed both his youth and his terror. He touched his chest, introducing himself. “Menia zavut Konstantin. You must come. Before it is too late.”

“But I…I don’t…”

“Da. You are confused. For now, know your zavut is Monk Kokkalis.”

Making a half-scoffing noise, he shook his head. Monk Kokkalis. The name meant nothing to him. As he attempted to voice his disagreement, to correct the mistake, he realized he had no ammunition, only a blank where his name normally resided. His heart clutched into a strained knot. Panic narrowed his vision. How could that be? He fingered the sutures again. Had he taken a blow to the head? A concussion? He sought for any memory beyond waking up here in this room, but there was nothing, a wasteland.

What had happened?

He stared again at the EKG monitor still connected to his chest by taped lead wires. And over in the corner stood a blood pressure monitor and an I.V. pole. So if he could name what lay around him, why couldn’t he remember his own name? He searched for a past, something to anchor him. But beyond waking up here in this dark room, he had no memory.

The smaller of the two boys seemed to sense his growing distress. The child stepped forward, his blue eyes catching the flash of the penlight. Monk—if that was really his name—sensed the boy knew more about him than he did himself. Proving this, the child seemed to read his heart and spoke the only words that would stir him from the bed.

The boy held up a small hand toward him, his fingers splayed, punctuating his need. “Save us.”