Falcon looked at the clock again. Twenty-one-ten. Fourteen hours since he’d dragged Nightwalker into the decrepit building. Thirteen since the doc had disappeared into the treatment room with him. Was she still operating, or stitching, or whatever it was docs did? Or had Nightwalker croaked on the table, and she just wasn’t telling him? He stood up, took a step toward the door into the treatment room. Stopped in doubt. He’d never been very good at waiting—particularly if he couldn’t sleep through it.