The medical wing at dawn felt like a tomb waiting to birth another ghost. Lisa Harris floated in her pod, California tan somehow preserved through seven months of ice, blonde hair drifting around a face that had graced Lakers courtside for four seasons before she'd traded pom-poms for a dance studio.
Alfred stood at Alec's left shoulder like he'd stood for thirty years—seven feet of silent judgment wrapped in a perfectly pressed suit that made him look like Death's butler. The man had changed Alec's diapers, taught him to throw a punch, and never once in three decades had he offered an opinion that wasn't asked for directly.
"She was the loudest," Ceecee said from her wheelchair, hands protective over her belly. "First day I met her, she talked for three hours straight about chakras and
