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He gave me the name and the cross streets. I put him on speaker, set the phone on the dresser, and pulled the closet open.

“Does Anna need help getting her downstairs?” I asked.

“She can manage the carrier. She just needs a car.”

I stepped into my jeans. “Has Peaches moved at all?”

“Once since ten.” A brief pause. “Anna offered her salmon. That’s her favorite. She put her head back down.”

I’d heard Trier talk to reporters, rookies, and Varga at full volume. I’d never heard him sound like this, quiet and deflated. I didn’t tell him she’d be fine. I didn’t know that, and he knew I didn’t.

“I can be at your building in twelve minutes,” I said. “Tell Anna I’m coming.”

“I’ll let her know. I told her I’d find another pair of hands.”

“You found them. Call her back and stay on the line with her. I’ll call from the car if I need anything.”

“Mark.” He paused for a second. “Thank you.”

“Twelve minutes.”

We hung up. I grabbed a hoodie, shoes, and my wallet. Then I took my keys out of the bowl by the door. Trier’s was already on the ring. I locked up and took the stairs.

The streets were as empty as Chicago gets. A cab idled outside the corner bar with its light off. I caught the first two greens and sat at the third light while the signal took its time.

My phone buzzed in the console mount. I left it there until I pulled into the loading zone at Trier’s building and turned the flashers on.

Trier forwarded Anna’s notes in a text message: breakfast eaten properly, a few bites at dinner, no water observed, repositioned once around ten, litter box used in the morning and not since. Below that were the hospital’s address and a message saying they knew she was coming.

One more text arrived.

Trier: Her medical folder is in the cabinet under the bookshelf. Red spine.

Mark: Got it. I’m downstairs.

The lobby guard waved me through before I finished saying my name. Upstairs, I put the key in the lock and turned it left.

Every light in the condo was on. The oak floor shone, reflecting light from the ceiling fixtures, and beyond the windows the courtyard was black. Peaches raised her head briefly when I entered.

Anna stood at the dining table with the carrier open on a chair and a bag packed beside it. The medical folder lay on top, red spine out.

“They said bring her in,” she told me. “They’re expecting us.”

“I’ll drive.”

I called Trier back on video and turned the screen toward the window bed. He was sitting on the edge of a hotel bed, dressed, a lamp on behind him.

Peaches lay curled tight, nose tucked. She lifted her head an inch when the phone came near, looked at it, and put her head back down.

Every visit since September, she’d inspected me upon arrival or pointedly declined to. She checked out equipment bags. This time she was ignoring everything. I understood why Anna had called Trier.

“There she is,” Trier said.

One ear turned toward his voice.

Anna brought the carrier over. “They asked about her medication schedule. I told them the gel was done at seven, and I have the tube in my bag with the dosing card. They want the folder too, and any recent bloodwork. The latest results are in there.”

She set the carrier down. “I should have called sooner. She was in the window bed, and after an afternoon like she had, sleeping through the evening seemed—“