It’s all Jonas can do to nod. He slowly rises to his feet, his face contorted in a grin so wide it hurts. He thinks about calling Emily back and asking whether she might get a message to Amanda, but every scenario he can envision strains credibility to the breaking point. Another search on the doctor’s phone confirms that this reality’s Jonas Cullen, Nobel laureate, died two years ago. Whoever Emily is, she isn’t equipped to tell Amanda that her husband has returned from the dead.
Another search yields the location of an American Express office, a thirty-minute walk from the hospital. He’s already rehearsing a story in his mind when the doctor asks him again if he’s okay, assessing whether Jonas presents a danger to himself or others.
“I’m fine,” he says. “I just want to go home.” This is the absolute truth.
“And home would be . . .”
“New York. Manhattan.”
“Well, you certainly are a long way from home, Mister . . .”
“Monroe,” Jonas says, using Amanda’s maiden name. “Evan Monroe.” He could do without the good doctor researching “Jonas Cullen” and discovering a dead man was walking around her hospital.
“Mr. Monroe, your body has suffered a trauma. I think you should get back in bed and rest. There are a number of tests I’d like to run.”
“I feel fine.”
“Be that as it may,” the doctor rebuts, “you showed up at a highly advanced and highly secure scientific facility with nothing in your pockets but a cloth patch embroidered with the number eight. I’m sure the police are going to want a word with you.”
“Excuse me?”
“The police—”
“No,” Jonas shakes his head, suddenly desperate. “The patch. Do you have it?”
The doctor reaches into the pocket of her lab coat and produces the Ouroboros patch that Eva gave Jonas. He takes it from her and fights off a spate of emotion.
“I just want to go home,” Jonas says, wiping away an errant tear. He holds up the phone. “There’s an American Express office nearby. They can give me a new card. I can use it to get home.”
“I’m not sure about that,” the doctor shrugs.
“Don’t worry,” Jonas says with confidence. “I’ve done it before.”
“That’s wonderful,” the doctor says, “but like I said, the police are going to want to speak with you.”
“Have I broken any laws?”
“I’m not an attorney. But I suppose there’s an argument to be made that you were trespassing in the Spire.”
“Are they pressing charges?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“And I’m not injured, right? There’s no medical reason to keep me here.”
“No medical reason,” she says, leaning on “medical.”
“In that case—”
“But a few psychiatric reasons are springing to mind.”
Jonas hands the phone back to the doctor. “You’re right,” he says. “This situation is unusual.”
Caught off guard by Jonas’s sudden cooperation, the doctor considers the phone in her hand, weighing her next move. “I’m going to order a CAT scan,” she says. “Let’s just confirm there’s no physical damage before we . . .”
“Move along to the ‘psychiatric reasons’?”
“One step at a time,” the doctor says.
“Words to live by,” Jonas deadpans. He climbs back into bed, the paragon of reasonable comity.
She shoots him another look full of the skepticism born of his sudden acquiescence, but it transmutes into a friendly smile, and she heads off.
When the door closes behind her, Jonas leaps from the bed and dresses as fast as he can. He needs to leave before an orderly comes back to retrieve him for the CAT scan. Like a criminal, he skulks out of the room and into the hallway. As he passes patients and personnel, he works to affect the confidence of someone who’s where he belongs. An elevator takes him down to the lobby. It feels as though everyone is watching him. Looking. Assessing. Judging. When he finally escapes into the open air, he rewards himself with a deep breath.
He thinks he has the directions to American Express memorized, but the streets quickly become a tangle. He gets as far from the hospital as he can before he risks asking passersby if they speak English and can point him in the direction of the American Express office. Most speak English, but no one knows where American Express can be found. Finally, a woman in her sixties breaks out her phone and sets Jonas off in the right direction.
When he arrives, he recites the story that had worked for him before. This time, he doesn’t have to wait. The officer doesn’t retreat from view, spiking his concern that police are being called. This time Jonas’s replacement card is produced promptly, accompanied by a sincere apology for his fictional ordeal. As before, the card offers a new lease on life. Jonas’s emotions are the stuff of television commercials. With this card, all things are possible.
His next step is to get to the American embassy in Tokyo. It’s a one-hour flight, but he doesn’t have the requisite ID. He has no alternative but to hitchhike, a process that ends up taking thirteen hours. By the time he’s finally standing in front of the nondescript office building that serves as the United States’ diplomatic presence in Tokyo, it’s the middle of the night.
Making a mental note of the embassy’s location, Jonas wanders. He takes in the looming skyscrapers, a crush of architecture awash in bright lights. To walk the city is to be inside an electronic billboard. He has no idea what month it is, but the air is crisp. He should be cold, but he isn’t. He should be hungry, but he passes restaurant after restaurant. He should be exhausted, but he has no desire to sleep. His footsteps feel light. Everything he sees is sharper. This, he now knows, is what it’s like to live past grief. The only thing standing between him and Amanda is geography. Halfway around the globe may as well be a walk around the block for someone who has traversed universes.
Nine hours later, the embassy’s consular officer, a Japanese woman in her thirties, is peering at Jonas over black-rimmed glasses with thick lenses. Her expression drips with incredulity as he repeats his now-familiar story.
“What a nightmare,” Jonas exclaims. “The bastard took my wallet, my passport, even my damn health insurance card . . . I thought Japan was supposed to be safe, y’know?” He holds up his American Express card. “I’m just lucky I kept this in a separate pocket.” He feigns astonishment at his purported good fortune.
