The next day, Sam went to the hospital bitter and angry. It was one of the worst fights he’d had with Eva, and he was vicious to anyone who crossed his path.

“Fucking Christ, Fletcher!” he screamed at the nursing head. “If you think Henson is stealing meds or scrips, make a fucking referral and put her on probation. If it’s her fucking hygiene, buy her a bloody bar of soap. But I have enough to attend to without micromanaging the fucking floor!”

He stormed off, leaving Fletcher in a miasma of confusion; nothing new, that. He composed himself before dropping in on Valdemar, the new cryo.

“Mr. Valdemar, how are you?”

“Oh, we… I… am fine,” the man replied. “I was wondering when I might leave.”

“We normally keep cryogenic revivals 90 days. I’ll admit you’re a picture of health. But we have procedures. Wouldn’t want to miss anything, would we?”

For a moment, Sam would’ve sworn Valdemar was about to leap from his chair and attack him, but it passed so quickly Sam wasn’t sure what he’d really seen.