The hall was a cathedral of global power. The Geneva Global Health Summit convened in an enormous, circular auditorium where light seemed to emanate from the shiny marble floors and the glass walls looked out onto the serene Swiss Alps. The health ministers of the world, the pharma behemoths, and the NGO leaders congregated here, their decisions echoing across continents. The air stank of money, power, and a slight antiseptic whiff of consensus.
Reuben Stone was a spectator at the banquet. He arose at the podium, his suit a borrowed skin, the ghost of river mud and camp filth still clinging to him. He was present at the tense invitation of Dr. Henry Grant, a final, desperate measure to legitimize the HON in the world's eyes. The recollection of Danford, of Crane's poisoned gift and the ch
