"Let's try this again. Who are you?" The detective asks.

"I am nobody," Jordan answers.

"That's not an answer."

"In fact, it is. It's simply not the answer you wanted to hear."

"Fine, I'll ask a more direct question. What is your full name, address, and social security number?"

"Well if you wish to know so badly, what's in it for me?" Jordan asks. The detective fixes her with a flat stare.

"How about this? If you don't answer the question simply and clearly, you'll be arrested for breaking and entering, resisting arrest, obstruction of justice, and assaulting a patient. So it's really in your best interest to work with me here."

"Is that so? I don't quite remember assaulting a patient. Unless, of course, standing in the same room counts as assault, nowadays."

"As the officers at the scene put it, you 'violently shattered a window, spraying glass and debris onto the sleeping patient'. That sounds like assault to me."

"Agree to disagree."

"You're being very combative for someone looking at 60 to 70 years."

"Combative?" Jordan gestured to her leg, wrapped tightly with gauze and a thin, tape-like material. "I have a broken leg, Ms. Detective. I can assure you, I'm quite incapable of combat at the moment."

The detective, whose face has been growing steadily more red throughout the interrogation, says nothing, choosing instead to open her digital notebook device and scroll through it. Jordan has been steadily wheedling away at her sanity for the better part of an hour.

"Tell me what you were doing that night."

"I was taking a midnight stroll."

"In a mental hospital? With a motorcycle parked out front?"

"Why not?"

The detective huffs in exasperation and closes her eyes. She schools her face into something resembling a statue and her eyes are noticeably blank when she opens them again. Jordan can feel frustration coming off the woman in waves, much as she tries to hide it.

"I'm going to ask you one more time," the detective says, using the cadence of one speaking to a toddler. "Who are you?"

Jordan, who's had a placid smile plastered on her face during this entire interaction purses her lips and gives a contemplative look. "Who am I?" she says. The detective's face has suddenly brightened, all semblance of self control lost. Amateur.

"Detective, listen well, for I speak only the truth. I am dead."

The detective stares blankly at her. "Excuse me?"

"I am dead, detective," Jordan says, all traces of humor now gone from her tone. "You may search your databases and your records but you will never find me, for I am nothing but a phantom. And if you choose to arrest a spirit for the crime, know that there is no material on this earth capable of holding that which belongs to another plane. You can dream of having me locked up in your iron fortresses, but when you wake, I will be gone, and with no evidence to prove I ever existed at all."

The detective's jaw is hanging open. "You're insane," she says.

"Possibly," Jordan shrugs.

"GOD," the detective rises from her chair, "FUCKING," she points a finger at Jordan, "DAMMIT! You're a fucking lunatic!"

"Is something the matter, detective?"

The detective isn't listening anymore. She taps her wrist and the embedded chip lets out a chirp. "I warned you," is the last thing she says before she storms out of the room. Jordan lets out a sigh of relief.

As entertaining as that was, she has much better things to do with her time, like wallowing in her own self pity. The sounds of the hospital fade into the background as she closes her eyes and drifts.

Jordan has somehow managed to lose Little Arthur, Teddy, her briefcase, and the use of her right leg all in one night. She knows she was brought to the emergency room of a hospital downtown three nights ago, and that one night ago she was moved to a more secure room in one of the upper levels. There is a guard posted outside her door at every hour of the day, and her left wrist is handcuffed to the hospital bed. Not that it matters, she's not going anywhere with that leg of hers.

This is not quite the closest call she's had. She seems to recall her every nerve blazing as smoke filled her lungs, eyes drooping shut as men and women alike jeered at her from the town square. She woke from this particular encounter in a California gold mine with second degree burns all over her body.

She is too far within herself, now, to feel anxious or frightened. In fact, she can no longer feel anything at all. Her mind is completely disconnected from her body, floating in ethereal space. Maybe she was right when she spoke to the detective earlier. Maybe Jordan is nothing more than a ghost. Maybe this is her punishment for all the pain she's surely caused throughout her life. Teddy and Arthur can't have been the first she'd burned. They won't be the last.

Jordan Baxter is nothing if not selfish. She knows that the world would be inherently more safe as long as she's behind bars. But she can't, she just can't sit by and watch as they take her freedom from her. She can't spend another night in a cold, dark cell, waiting and wondering when her execution date will come. She knows from her research that Idyll, Arizona, unlike the rest of the country, has staunchly refused to abolish the death penalty.

Escape may seem a lofty goal for some, nigh impossible with her leg in a cast, but Jordan is, above all else, a creature of habit. She's given up all hope of ever seeing Teddy again, and directs herself towards a more attainable goal. She must push away the heartbreak and the nausea for as long as it takes her to flee this accursed city. Once she's at least 50 miles outside the city limits, she can cry as much as she wants. For now, she must plan.

The guard currently outside her door, Claremont, takes an unscheduled break every four hours, always about ten to fifteen minutes depending on which nurse is stationed at the help desk. Nurses filter in and out periodically, but Jordan has noticed two constants. The nurse with vitiligo is polite but obviously frightened of being in the same room as two "hardened" criminals. She will be no help. The extremely bloodshot nurse tends to mumble under his breath as he works. Most of it is nonsense, but Jordan has caught the occasional complaint about police presence inside the hospital.

Then comes Jordan's roommate, Mr. Morris. From what he's told her in the twenty-four hours they've shared a room, he was an ordinary door to door salesman before being bitten by a radioactive gerbil and transforming into a dark vigilante who uses his powers to rid the world of evil. At least, that was his story yesterday. This morning, he claimed he was actually an olympic level knot detangler and was framed for the murder of a high level diplomat from Bosnia to prevent his team winning gold.

Currently, he's adopted an Irish accent and is fondly recounting the events of a nonexistent war. It brings a tear to his eye to think about the Great Irish Reunification when beer filled the streets, pubs ran out of brews, and even the sheep celebrated. Jordan zones back in right as he finishes explaining how, exactly, the sheep were able to celebrate when they don't have any opposable thumbs.

"What a marvelous time it was," he says fondly. "Back when people remembered how to enjoy things together. You know, us soldiers gave the rest of our brew to the sheep for doing their part to end the war. Won't catch anyone doin' that nowadays, I tell ya. Those blessed sheep..."

"That's very nice, Mr. Morris," the bloodshot nurse says as he ambles into the room. "I didn't realize you'd changed nationalities on us, we'll have to update your chart."

"What're you talkin' about, boyo? I'm an Irish lad, born and bred."

"Ah, I see." The nurse winks at Jordan. "So we're in Ireland now, then? Explains the amount of pubs on the street," he mutters. He checks Mr. Morris' vitals and records the information in his tablet. "Alright Mr. Morris, here's the deal." The nurse levels his patient with a disapproving look. "Sonja tells me you're cheeking your meds. Ah," he holds up a hand as Mr. Morris objects, "I'm not finished. We know you're not taking them because Sonja found some hidden under your mattress yesterday. Now, you know what happens when we don't take our meds." He snaps his fingers and the tv that has been blaring endless Big Brother reruns shuts off. Mr. Morris yells and attempts to snap his own fingers, but his hands are too shriveled and weak to make much sound.

Jordan watches the ensuing argument passively. A few days ago, she might have been entertained by such a ridiculous exchange, but now, she simply records the information for possible later use. Mr. Morris screams that the nurse, Trav, is "no better than that stuck piggie outside" while Trav sedates him.

Trav seems especially out of sorts as the guard pokes his head in to see what the commotion is all about.

"Need some help in here?"

"Fuck off, Claremont!" Trav glares. "I can handle my own patients, thanks very much."

Claremont's eyes narrow and he puts a hand on his gun holster. "That guy killed three people, you know. I wouldn't be so flippant about it if I were you."

"And I wouldn't want anyone to know about your little 'breaks' on duty. Or that they only ever seem to happen when Target's at the welcome desk." Trav eyes the door and juts his chin toward it. Claremont seems to get the hint because he removes his hand from his holster and steps back.

"Just watch yourself, Trav," he says, closing the door behind him. Trav scoffs and glances at Jordan.

"Sorry you had to see that, that was super unprofessional." He picks his tablet back up and crosses the room to check her monitor. "Your vitals are looking good. Are you in any pain?"

How can Jordan explain that her body and soul have become disconnected? That any pain she may be feeling has been buried deep inside her chest. That even now, she can't suppress the overwhelming feeling of melancholy that permeates her mind and clouds her judgment. How can she tell him that she's ruined herself and any hope of happiness for her loved ones?

Jordan simply shakes her head. Trav frowns and glances at her chart.

"You came in three days ago with a compound fracture to the right tibia, severe concussion, and a broken nose. Now in my experience, it takes at least a month for a compound fracture to fully heal, so you should still be in a great amount of pain."

Jordan shakes her head again. Trav glances at the door before he sits down in the chair next to her bed. "Listen, I don't know what you did or who you had to piss off to end up here, but punishing yourself isn't going to make you feel better." He steeples his fingers together and gestures to the full plate of food on the table next to her. "See, that's not gonna fly."

Trav stands and grabs the plate of mush. "I get it if you don't want painkillers, lots of people have substance control problems. But let's get one thing straight, you will eat at least half of every meal you're given. Otherwise, we're going to have some problems and trust me, you don't want that."

Jordan snickers.

"What?" Trav looks a little shocked. She doesn't blame him, Jordan hasn't said a word to any of the medical staff or her roomate since she was brought here.

"Nothing," Jordan says, pitching her voice a little higher than usual. "It's just kind of funny how scary you think you are." She giggles and covers her mouth with the hand that's not currently handcuffed to the bed.

Trav's ears redden a bit. "I'll have you know I'm absolutely terrifying to those poor med students."

"Lucky for me, I'm not one." Jordan looks up at him bashfully. It's a calculated risk, but she needs to convince him she's not a threat. "I'm Axle." She sticks her hand out for him to shake.

"Trav." He looks at her suspiciously.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," he drawls. "It's just... you've been pretty frigid up 'till now and all of a sudden it's like you're the welcoming committee."

"Sorry about that," she says. "I'll be honest, I'm not a huge fan of..." she cuts her eyes to the door where Claremont stands guard. Trav nods his understanding. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't a fan either. I mean, you never know who to trust these days. Say I tell you something in confidence, and you turn around and report it back to Mr. Sunshine out there."

"Okay, then." Trav places the plate down in her lap. "I guess that all depends on what you did to land yourself in hospital jail," he jokes.

Jordan frowns. "I didn't do anything that bad, I swear."

"Uh huh, that's what they all say."

"No, I mean it." Jordan glances around furtively. "I was just trying to visit my grandma, that's all. She's not been... herself lately." Trav nods in sympathy. "But I work all day shifts usually, so by the time I'm off work, visiting hours are over. It's stupid, I know," Jordan looks down in mock embarrassment, "but I haven't seen her in so long. So I broke in and went to her room, just to sit with her."

"I'm guessing you didn't break that leg just by sitting with her?"

"No, the alarm went off. Guards were chasing me, I panicked, so I jumped out a window."

"Damn." It seems like Trav is buying it. "Well if that's all there is to it, why not just tell the cops?"

Jordan snorts. "Please, I'm not telling them anything. You know how they do, they twist your words around, make it seem like everything's way worse than it is. I accidentally broke a window, I think the company that owns the place is trying to sue and I don't have the money to pay for it."

Trav considers this for a moment. "That's bad luck, then. I get why you won't tell them what happened, but you're already in trouble. Why not?" He taps her handcuff.

"That's what I need your help with," she says. "I've got an idea, okay? You want me to finish my food, right? I need to use the phone." Jordan holds her breath, hoping against hope that public phones still exist.

"What happened to your chip? Why can't you just use that?"

"I sold it." Trav's eyes widen in shock. "I know, I know, but we couldn't afford to have grandma institutionalized if I hadn't done it."

"Woah," Trav whistles, "you really are fucked, aren't you?"

"Well and truly," Jordan says, letting a hint of desperation creep into her voice. "Please if you could just get me to a phone, just for five minutes, I can call my dad and we can work this whole thing out." She widens her eyes and gazes up at Trav. His mouth is set in a hard line.

"Wait here," he says, and Jordan almost breathes a sigh of relief on the spot.

************

She and Trav plan for several hours in between his other nursing duties, and when the time is right, they strike. Target makes her way back to the welcome station from her coffee break, meaning Claremont abandons his post to go chat her up. Mr. Morris is still sleeping soundly. Jordan picks the lock on her handcuffs, and Trav gives her a shot of some sort of painkiller and adrenaline cocktail that will keep her going long enough to make it out of the room and back. When the coast is clear, he supports her to a supply closet and points at a small rectangular device attached to the wall.

"Sorry about the close quarters," he says, shrugging apologetically. "We're not really supposed to have a landline, so don't go telling everyone about it." Jordan nods and Trav checks his watch. "You've got three minutes, make it quick."

Jordan doesn't touch the phone. Instead, she grabs a scalpel off the left hand shelf and hides it up her sleeve. When Trav knocks on the door to signal time's up, Jordan limps out of the room and tosses a fearful look behind her. "Is that supposed to be in there?" She asks, voice tinged with worry.

"What?" Trav asks, going inside to investigate. When he turns around, Jordan is standing in the doorway, pointing the scalpel at him.

Trav opens his mouth to scream, but Jordan raises the scalpel to his throat. "Quiet, dear. We wouldn't want any accidents, now would we?" Trav shakes his head, eyes wide with fear. "Good boy. Now, you're going to give me your keys, and I'm going to close the door. You're going to give me at least five minutes before you make a fuss, understand?" Trav nods, whimpering as he hands Jordan his keys. "Thank you. You really are an excellent nurse, Trav." Jordan flashes him a smile, sincere this time, and closes the door to the supply closet. As an added measure, she shoves the scalpel into the pin and tumbler lock and jams it in as hard as she can. It'll take at least ten minutes before someone thinks to look for poor Trav.

Jordan gets lucky and isn't stopped as she limps to the elevator. She rides it all the way to the bottom floor and the doors open up to reveal the underground staff parking garage that she remembers from reading about in the hospital's pamphlet. She clicks the keys and hears a chirp a few feet to her left. It's a small car, not too new or old fashioned. Almost like it was designed to not draw attention. Perfect for her purposes.

Jordan feels her heartbeat slow to its normal pace as she puts it in reverse and peels out of the parking garage. All she has to do is make it to the city limits, then she's home free. The relief she feels is only tempered by the ache in her heart as she leaves Teddy and Little Arthur behind.