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Zach

Zach pulls the curtain back between their beds and turns around and Sara’s there in a hoodie, tired and smiling, her face not so different from the photo he first saw in the dossier.

The beeping pulse monitor on his finger takes a long pause, then restarts in triple time.

Sara glances over at it in startlement; Zach yanks it off. “Uh, hi,” he says. He’s suddenly very aware of his brief white gown. Did he last see her a day ago? Did they only meet the day before?

“Hi,” says Sara, whose eyes, she knows, must be full of guilt.

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