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As soon as he's out of sight, I let out my breath and walk slowly back to where Gabriel left the cart he was pushing when the monitors went down.

Another reason this had to be done at night, I realize. During the night there's only one nurse at this station. If there were two, one would go from room to room checking the patients while Gabriel made the repairs. With one, Pearl couldn't risk being away from the desk, where she could monitor the machines for all her patients. With the video off, all she has are the ones monitoring their vital signs, which will show her if something's wrong.

I take Gabriel's cart and push it slowly in front of me and make a U-turn. There's a back entrance to the hallway with the rooms. I turn the corner and come to the double doors marked
NO ENTRY—VISITORS MUST SIGN IN AT DESK
and push.

The hallway is empty. There are never any visitors at this time of night.

Steadying myself, I walk slowly, counting the numbers…1411…1409…

I know that with the repair I probably have about fifteen minutes, max, to check out the room. Unless Mrs. Krausz is awake.

I have to trust she won't ring the call bell, summon Pearl, and end the game once and for all.

I reach room 1405. I knock quietly. No answer. Slowly, I open the door, and—

“Time for my medicine already?”

A chunky woman is sitting up in the bed, reading.
Love's Savage Kiss,
of all things.

She looks at me with saucerlike eyes above a bulbous nose and wide mouth permanently set in a resigned smile.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Krausz, I didn't know you were awake.”

“Please. I can't sleep in these places. Do I know you? I don't remember seeing you before, darling.” Mrs. Krausz speaks with the rich, round tones I associate with my father's relatives back east in Brooklyn.

“I'm…new…,” I say, glad for once that my voice hasn't changed yet. “How are you feeling?” I ask, trying to sound as nurselike as I can.

“You're not a nurse, are you, dear?” asks Mrs. Krausz, smiling again.

“No, I'm…an orderly…”

Mrs. Krausz laughs. “You look a little young, darling. What's the real story?”

I decide that honesty is the best policy.

I'm about to remove my mask and then hesitate. “Would it be all right for me to take this off? I know you're afraid of germs, and—”

Mrs. Krausz puts her hands to her forehead and laughs again. “Is that what they told you?”

“Yes, that you wouldn't see visitors because of your fear of germs. Not even your immediate family was allowed in.”

Another burst of laughter. “That's hilarious. That must have been my son Nathan, telling the nurse something to make himself feel better. The truth is, I can't stand all those sad faces. Who needs them? I'd rather be alone. Make yourself comfortable, darling.”

I take off the mask and the cap.

Mrs. Krausz stares at me. “So how old are you, sweetheart, if you don't mind my asking?”

“I'm twelve,” I confess. Normally, having a complete stranger call me “sweetheart” and “darling” would be weird, but somehow when old Jewish ladies do it, it seems perfectly natural. I begin to scan the room, looking for anything black and rectangular.

Mrs. Krausz looks at me with worried eyes. “At this hour, he's at the hospital?”

Funny, she reminds me of some of the old Jewish ladies on my dad's side of the family: they also talk about you in the third person even though you're standing right there. And they talk like Yoda, too.

I tell you, I get this every Thanksgiving.

“And you have a name?”

“Um…Ted. My mom's a nurse here at the hospital.”

“So, Ted, you're looking for your mother? Are you lost?”

I glance at the empty bed next to Mrs. Krausz. Clearly no one has been here since my great-uncle was moved.

“Actually, I was trying to find something my great-uncle might have left here. Ted Wakabayashi?”

Mrs. Krausz made a face. “The Japanese gentleman? I'm sorry to say, I know he was your uncle, he should rest in peace, but he wasn't a very friendly man.”

“It's all right. I didn't know him very well.”

I reach confidently under his old bed, where the railings are.

No magnetic box. I feel all the way around. Nothing.

As Mrs. Krausz goes on and on about her family, which ones she likes and which ones should drop dead, I search the windowsills, the drapes, the closet, the bathroom. It doesn't seem to faze her in the slightest that she's having a conversation with a strange twelve-year-old close to midnight while he does a top-to-bottom search of her room.

“You find what you're looking for, sweetheart?”

“No,” I say glumly, and sit on the bed near her.

Mrs. Krausz pats my hand. “That's too bad.”

She peers at my name tag. “Oh, your father's not—”

“No, I'm half.”

“So the other half, if I may ask?”

“My dad's Jewish,” I admit. Uh-oh. I know what's coming.

Her face lights up like a Christmas tree, or more accurately, like a menorah.

“I knew it! Did your mother convert?”

“No…we're not really—”

“You should come to services at our temple. We have so many Asian Jewish families.”

I smile weakly. “I'll let my parents know.”

“Temple Beth Shalom in Tarzana.”

I get up to go. It won't be long before the monitors are back on. “It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Krausz. I hope you're feeling better soon.”

Just as I'm about to open the door, Mrs. Krausz calls after me.

“Listen, before you go…maybe you can get this to work. When your uncle was here, he always insisted on choosing the channels. Then he left, and nobody seems to be able to get this to work right. Could you look at it?”

She is holding up a remote control. A rectangular black remote control.

I take the remote from Mrs. Krausz's proffering hand.

I try to sound casual, but I can hear the shake of excitement in my voice.

“M-maybe the batteries need replacing.”

Mrs. Krausz makes a face. “That's funny. I remember your uncle changing them when he got here. He said he always did that. So thoughtful, he was.”

So he opened the back.

It's in here.

I notice my hands shaking as I fumble for the latch that holds the battery compartment.

Slowly, I open it and peer inside.

Nothing.

No key.

I pry the batteries out. He must have put it behind them.

The only thing there is a small folded piece of paper. I take it and stuff it into my pocket. I reassemble the remote and throw it down on the bed in frustration.

No key.

Has someone else gotten here first and taken it?

Mrs. Krausz peers over with a worried look. “Don't be so concerned, darling. It's only a remote. If you can't fix it, you can't fix it. They're bringing me a new one in the morning anyway.”

A whirring noise from down the corridor snaps me out of my daze. That would be Gabriel, putting in the new breaker with his electric screwdriver.

The monitors will be up and running in less than a minute.

“I'm afraid I have to go now, Mrs. Krausz. My mother…It was very nice meeting you.”

On impulse, I pick up the remote.

“You wouldn't mind my taking this with me, would you? As kind of a keepsake of my great-uncle.”

She laughs. “Of course not, darling. Take it and be well. As I said, for me, it never works.” Mrs. Yoda grabs my face and kisses me roughly on the cheek. Definitely like one of Dad's aunts back in Brooklyn.

“Go safely, sweetheart. And promise you'll come visit again!”

“I'll try,” I say. “As soon as I can.”

“Such a nice boy,” Mrs. Krausz murmurs as I leave.

I slip out the door and see the shadowy figure of Gabriel kneeling down by the closet, putting his tools away.

“How's it look now?” he yells to Pearl at the desk.

“They're back!” she crows. Even from where I am, I can see through the double doors the glow of the room monitors lighting up Pearl's angular face.

Not a moment too soon.

I turn and see that I am directly by the staircase leading down to the ER. At least the game hasn't failed me in this.

I snap on the surgical mask and cap and sprint the thirteen flights down the now-silent stairs. I push open the door and stride purposefully through the emergency room.

As I walk by the aides and doctors, no one gives me a second glance. Those who look up just see another small Asian nurse in scrubs. Nothing new in this hospital.

And I'm out!

Panting with relief, I peel off the scrubs and stow them and the ID in my backpack.

I strap on my helmet and head out the driveway. The tires wobble as I fight to get control of my bike and my emotions. I steady myself, hit a downward slope, and begin to coast as the cool, breezy California night clears my mind.

I pull into the driveway and park my bike in the garage, leaning against the back door. Once more, I check my watch. Twelve-thirty. No chance my parents will be up.

I carefully open the door and push through the small entry leading to the kitchen. It's still and dark. Not a sound can be heard through the house. The adrenaline that has been carrying me through the last hour drains out with each step up the stairs. I lie down on my bed, too tired to do anything but sleep.

All of a sudden, I sit straight up and take the folded paper out of my pocket. I turn on my desk light. Carefully, I unfold it and see only this, neatly printed out:

Japanese? It looks like something I've seen before, but fatigue catches up with me, and before I know it, my eyes close and my head drops.

“Ted!” someone is yelling from downstairs.

I groggily sit up and focus. I stumble downstairs and join Mom, who's standing with a tall, narrow-faced man with short gray hair.

“Ted, there's someone here to see us. Mr.—”

“Clark Kent, with the
Honolulu Star-Advertiser.
” He hands me his card.

“I thought you worked for the
Daily Planet,
” I crack.

Mr. Kent smiles a thin smile. “I get that a lot.”

Mom sits down on the couch and folds her arms. “I'm afraid you can't stay too long. I have to go grocery shopping before I go to the hospital.”

“That's all right!” Mr. Kent says. “This shouldn't take long. May I?” He indicates a chair at the dining room table and sits down. As he takes out a pad and pencil, I study Clark Kent for a moment.

He has deep-set eyes, and graying eyebrows that slope down as well, making him look weary and older than he probably is. His narrow features and neat haircut remind me of an anchorman from one of those cable news network shows my dad watches.

“Do you want to talk to Mom first? She knew Great-Uncle Ted the best. This is about him, isn't it?” I say.

Mr. Kent turns to Mom and smiles.

“This article isn't just about your uncle. I'm trying to get as much information as I can about all the brave men who fought so valiantly in the Nisei brigade.”

Mr. Kent looks back at me and taps his pad with his pencil. “What I am most interested in—um…what our readers would be most interested in, I should say—are your uncle's…er, your great-uncle's last words.”

“I only really talked to him once, and that was a day before he died.”

A worried look comes over his face. “Oh, I see…so you don't know?”

“Don't know what?” I ask.

Mr. Kent coughs and reads from his notebook. “Shortly after seeing you, he fell into a coma from which he never awoke.” Mr. Kent looks up and regards me with an easy smile. “Which means, I guess, that you
would
have heard his last words.”

I stand up. “I really don't feel like talking about this.”

My mom comes over and puts her arm around me. “That's fine, Ted. I don't mean to be rude, Mr. Kent, but I do have to get going anyway, so—”

“I'm really sorry. I'm not used to talking to young people. Please accept my apologies.”

Now I don't know what to think. He seems like a nice enough guy.

I feel myself softening. “All I can tell you about my great-uncle is that he didn't really
say
anything. He couldn't speak, so he wrote everything down on a pad of paper.”

Mr. Kent starts writing furiously. He tries to sound casual. “And this pad of paper—do you still have it, by any chance?”

I don't think Mr. Kent needs to know what's on that pad.

“Uh, no…I'm not sure where it is…,” I say quickly.

Mr. Kent looks up with surprise. “Are you saying you lost it?”

My mom steps in. “He didn't think it was all that important. He's twelve, Mr. Kent. I think he's been through enough, don't you?”

“I mean, I didn't know he was going to die, you know?” I can hear the edge creeping into my voice.

“I see,” says Mr. Kent, fumbling to gather his things. He stuffs the notebook and pencil into his bag, gets to his feet, and smiles at me. “Of course. But if you do happen to remember his last words, or whatever he wrote on that pad, it might be a great way to end my article. If you could call me, I'd really appreciate it. My number's on that card.”

I nod. Mr. Kent heads for the door. My mom goes to let him out.

At the doorway, Mr. Kent turns. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Gerson. I'm so sorry I upset you, Ted. I'm trying to honor these men, and your great-uncle was one of them. That's all I want.”