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have.”
    “I didn’t mean for us to get off on the wrong foot. There’s a lot riding on this case—for everyone, not just me. Mark can’t afford his tuition, fifty plus people would be out of work, and these patients come here to find their center. What will happen to them if we’re not here?”
    “You could have told me that and I’d have tried to help.”
    “I’m telling you now,” Guy said, “and giving you the opportunity to back out. I understand if you don’t want to stay. I’ll call and make things as right as I can with Dan. You can go back to Chicago and pretend none of this happened.”
    Ross shook his head. “I can’t do that, not after meeting Lila.”
    “Selfishly, I’m glad to hear that. Did you have a chance to read through her chart?”
    “I did. I know the records say food is an issue, but she’s so thin. Her medication log shows all the first and second line treatments for depression, which should’ve helped with appetite.”
    “She refuses to eat no matter which medication we put her on.”
    “What about a feeding tube?” Ross said.
    “I can’t get the authorization.”
    “It’s a minor procedure.”
    “It’s still surgery and a no-go without consent. We need to get through to her before she starves herself.”
    Ross leaned forward in his chair. “What do you know about Lila’s husband, what was his name? Blake?”
    Guy nodded. “I only know what I read in the papers. He was a well-respected surgeon who had put himself in harm’s way to save a young family and he was very close to his mother, Ruth.”
    “What about his father?”
    “I believe he is deceased.”
    “How did he die?”
    “I’m not sure. It’s not the kind of thing you try to get Ruth to talk about.”
    Ross made a mental note. “What about Lila? Did you try asking her?”
    “I’ve tried asking her a lot of things. Conversations with Lila are only ever one-way.”
    “You’ve ruled out DNS?”
    Delayed Neurologica Sequelae (DNS), a potential side effect of carbon monoxide exposure, included, among other things, mutism—an inability to speak.
    “That was my first thought.”
    “And?”
    “EMS treated Lila with oxygen through a nonrebreather mask within minutes of her being found. She was inside of a hyperbaric oxygen chamber within six hours. Her COHb was normal.” COHb, or carboxyhemoglobin level in the blood, was routinely tested following carbon monoxide exposure.
    “Hyperbaric oxygen isn’t a guarantee,” Ross said. “There’s a twenty-five percent chance of DNS following carbon monoxide poisoning.”
    “ Poisoning. That’s the key word. Take another look at her levels, Ross. They were never toxic.”
    “Maybe she was tested after they normalized.”
    “You know that wouldn’t be the case if the doctors followed protocol, but let’s say, for argument sake, that the tests were wrong or administered incorrectly. The first word in DNS is ‘delayed.’ Mutism from DNS would have taken a month to manifest. Lila refused to talk from the beginning. I believe she can speak. She just doesn’t want to.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
     
    Guy was right.
    Ross re-reviewed Lila’s chart and found that she had never been carbon monoxide toxic. Despite her well-researched attempt—the right car, no catalytic converter—she had been found quickly and treated immediately.
    DNS would have been an easy solution, something treatable, or at the very least recognizable, but Lila’s condition wasn’t black and white. Every possible diagnosis Ross could think of had already been ruled out, leaving him with a series of dead ends and the likelihood that whatever was wrong with Lila couldn’t be gleaned from reading her medical records.
    Ross peeled the sticky note off the back of the monitor and powered up his laptop, entering “password” on the main login screen. Updates applied and the machine restarted. Ross unpacked the bonsai kit and potted the tiny Juniper tree while he waited. However Guy meant the