Twice, the Agora instructed me to change positions or turn, letting the bleach, hot water, and cleansing foam cover every part of me. The hot water jets were repeated three times; the bleach was only repeated once. Guess I was dirtier than I was potentially diseased.
Finally, the water turned off, and the Agora said, “Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Didn’t you say that, like, five minutes ago?” I opened my eyes. The door in front of me was open, revealing an antechamber that looked like the locker room of a really upscale gym.
“My range of programmed responses is wide, but sometimes, repetition is inevitable,” said the Agora patiently. “If you would like to register a complaint—”
“That’s okay,” I said, cutting the hotel off midsentence. “Thanks for the scrub. Do I get pants in the next room?”
“Yes, Shaun,” said the Agora.
“Awesome,” I said, and proceeded on. The “pants” were drawstring cotton, purple with the Agora logo over the hip, like they were advertising a high school pep team. The bathrobe that went with them was a few shades darker, with the same logo. I pulled everything on, checked to be sure the ties were tight, and stepped out the door in the far wall.
George was waiting in the hall, tugging anxiously at the sleeves of her own bathrobe. Her feet were bare, the legs of her sweatpants pooling over their tops, and her sunglasses were gone. Without a medical condition to make them mandatory, she could have them confiscated at every sterilization checkpoint we encountered. Another EMT was standing nearby, using that weird gift that some people in service industries seem to possess, and basically blending into the furniture.
I ignored her, focusing on George. “Hey,” I said. “All clean?”
“All clean.” She sighed, giving up on tugging her sleeves into place. “Do you think that after we see how Maggie’s doing, we can get me a can of Coke?”
“We can get you a gallon of Coke,” I said.
“Good.” She looked to the EMT. “Where to now?”
“This way,” said the EMT. She started down the hallway and we followed, only lagging by a few steps. The hall ended at a pair of sliding glass doors, which opened to reveal a small but well-appointed hospital waiting room. There was even an admissions desk, with a woman sitting behind it, tapping away at her computer.
“The Masons are here for Miss Garcia,” called the EMT, as she led us past the desk. The other woman nodded, looking up with a smile. Her fingers kept moving the whole time, and her eyes snapped quickly back to the screen.
“Do you get many medical emergencies here?” asked George.
“The Agora is proud to provide hospital services to our guests, both past and present,” said the EMT. “We have patients most days, seeing our private doctors. It offers a guarantee of privacy and discretion that is unfortunately not present in many more public hospitals.”
“Better care for rich people, right?” I said. “Figures.”
George didn’t say anything. She just looked thoughtfully around as we followed the EMT past a row of unlabeled doors, finally pausing at one that looked like all the others.
“A moment, please,” said the EMT, and pushed the door open, vanishing inside. Only a few seconds passed before she pushed the door open again, this time holding it to let us through. “Miss Garcia will see you now.”
“Awesome,” I said, and stepped past her into the room. I stopped dead just past the threshold, too stunned to speak.
George ducked in behind me. After a few startled seconds, she said, “Remind me to come here the next time I decide to get hurt.”
“You and me both,” I said.
The halls of the Agora’s medical center might look like the ones you’d find at any other upscale hospital, but the patient rooms were something completely different, at least if Maggie’s was anything to go by. The walls were painted a warm amber, and there was actual carpet on the floor—easy-clean industrial carpet, sure, but a world of luxury away from normal hospital tile. The only medical equipment in sight was a flat-screen display that flickered periodically between images, apparently doing the work of multiple monitors.
Maggie was lying in the middle of a comfortable-looking bed with a wine red comforter and more pillows than anyone needs, sick or not. She was too pale, especially for her. An IV was connected to her left arm, and there were sensor patches on her collarbones, but apart from that, she could have been taking a nap. Mahir was sitting to one side of the bed; Becks was standing near the wall. They both turned to look at us.
There was a moment of awkward silence before Mahir said, “If Maggie were awake and mobile, this is doubtless the point where she would leap to her feet, announce how worried she’d been, and run to embrace you. Please forgive me if I choose to take all that as written, and move straight to asking what the bloody hell we’re meant to do now.”