She halted.
The wheelchair stopped.
Kenji's shoulder blades stiffened.
The voice had come from the wall.
To the left of the nurse's station, between the directional signs for Radiology and Cardiology, in the space that should have contained a fire safety notice and a waiting chair.
A man.
Standing.
Visible to her — fully, completely visible — and to Kenji, whose hands had gone white on the arm rests — and invisible to the nurse at the station three feet away, who was typing with the focused indifference of someone who had no information that anything in her vicinity had changed.
Naked.
The full, comprehensive nakedness of a man whose body had been built with the specific, Greek-god intention of looking exactly like this — the thighs, the calves, the abdomen, the shoulders — the six-pack pressing against the skin with the clean, structural clarity of muscle that had not a single apologetic layer over it.
Black hair.
