Conrad found himself lingering outside the isolation ward each night, staring through the glass at Logan, who lay unchanged. He questioned whether consciousness could separate from the body. Could a spirit act independently while the brain lay dormant. Could trauma open a door between worlds the way a fracture opens a bone. Science had no language for those possibilities.
One night, Conrad turned away from the window and found Detective Dunham standing beside him.
“Do you think he knows what he is doing,” she asked.
Conrad shook his head. “I do not believe this is intention. It feels more like a reflex. Like the brain firing in dreams. The nurses are not harmed. Their babies appear healthy. It is extraordinary, but not malicious.”
Rhea considered this. “The board wants to keep all of this private. They fear panic. They fear lawsuits. They fear being called insane. I cannot say I blame them.”
“Do you think I should resign,” Conrad asked.
“What do you want,” she countered.
He exhaled. “To understand. To help. To make sense of the impossible.”
The detective placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then stay until that is no longer possible.”