The hospital ward hummed with the low thrum of machines and the murmur of awakening patients. I stirred, consciousness seeping back, bringing with it the dull ache of my body and a creeping sense of unease. Outside, the rain fell in a thick, rhythmic curtain, its soothing sound ironically amplified by the open window. It was an odd place to wake up, yet here I was, a patient awaiting transfer, prodding, and probing.

My anaemia had caught everyone, including myself, by surprise. Dizzy spells, palpitations—then a phone call, and now this. A porter had moved me to a ward, a temporary residence among an assortment of ailing men. One, entirely hidden by a privacy curtain save for his disfigured feet, another, a pot-bellied, burping figure, and Patrick, a silent sleeper. Only William, with his loud Pink Floyd, added an unsettling rhythm to the night.

The saving grace was the Lithuanian nurse, her indigo eyes gleaming with humor and professionalism behind her mask, assisted by a tiny, cheerful Singaporean. My first two transfusions seemed endless, bleeding into the early hours, making for one of the worst nights of sleep I’d ever known. It was in moments like these I missed my late wife’s comforting words. Visitors were an alien concept; I expected none.

Then, just as I’d resigned myself to a solitary morning, Detective Chief Inspector Sandra Burton strode in, commanding the space. "There you are," she said, pulling up a chair. "Can't have you wasting away in here. I've got a job for you." My excitement stirred, cutting through the hospital ennui. "Missing person," she stated, leaning closer, her voice low. "Come on. I've spoken to the doctor; whatever is wrong with you isn't life-threatening; get your stuff together and let's get out of here. We've got work to do."