Brendan woke up with both a sore throat and a body as heavy as lead. Jolts of chill and heat cycled through his veins, cluing him in on the possibility that he had a fever. The last time he had been sick like this was about a year ago, and Brendan had a faint idea of where the medicine kit was.

Deirdre had placed it in the cabinet near the headboard.

He coughed and pulled the door to the cabinet open. Every medicine bottle had a post-it note with scribbles on the dosage and its expiration date. It was just who Deirdre was—she had always been very meticulous with whatever she undertook.

Brendan tore the note away and felt his chest somehow get torn open.

A few days had passed with no sign of his sickness availing. Still, he went to work, battling his coughing fits and general sickness as he thumbed through paperwork. More days passed, and he was beginning to think his memories were fading into white noise.

Then, suddenly, he received a call from Sam.

“Mr. Brighthall, we found t