Claire had asked Sherita how to pronounce his name, and she’d replied: “Damned if I know. He’s been here two years, and I’ve always called him ‘honey.’ Nice guy though.” Yuvraj seemed to read Claire’s mood, and said nothing as he steered her down the hospital corridor. In every room they passed, Claire noticed patients with family members—some with entire clans gathered around their beds; others with just one person at their side. Claire saw their rooms full of flowers, beds with Get Well helium balloons tied to the side rails, framed photos of loved ones and Get Well cards on nightstands. Meanwhile, Yuvraj was pushing her toward her stark, empty room: not a single flower, card, or side-table photo. Not a soul. She had a guard outside her room, and dozens of reporters who were dying for a chance to talk with her. But they only knew her as Jane Doe, the lone survivor of Rembrandt’s killing spree. Word had spread around the hospital about her, and these excursions from her room always made Claire a bit nervous.
