She grabbed his chair with panicked strength, pushed him to the street, and turned right. At first she was just moving, the need to flee overwhelming, then she recognized her location: Brooklyn’s Methodist Hospital. Farther down this street, she could get an unmarked taxi—traceable, but they didn’t have a lot of options. The road was steep, and within seconds, she labored for breath in the cold air. The shops on either side were closed, rusted metal shutters reflecting her footsteps in a mocking echo. At least the street lights were still on, their bright yellow glare throwing her surroundings into sharp relief.