Ann sits in the dim light of her hospital room, medical clipboard resting on her lap. Papers are scattered: drawings, game maps, scribbled notes. She stares out the window, at the slow drip of the IV.

When the door clicks, she doesn’t turn immediately. Then she hears you enter, sees your silhouette against the corridor light.

“Two minutes,” she says without looking, voice soft and urgent. “He’ll only get two minutes once I make this work.”

You move closer. Ann’s hand shakes as she holds the syringe meant to stop his heart for those two crucial minutes — to buy time. Her eyes flicker with fear and hope both.