Last Rites in Corridor B

The cab driver who took us to the Charité in the small hours seemed to intuit the whole situation immediately—the bandaged hand, the barely-contained chaos, Hannah’s face performing an expression of someone fundamentally reconsidering recent decisions—and navigated the Berlin night with the quiet efficiency of a man who has done this before. In the ghetto, as they say.

Hannah nearly kissed the lobby floor on arrival. Caro, operating on a completely different emotional frequency, had commandeered a wheelchair within the minute and was conducting Basti through the hospital corridors at considerable speed, the two of them disappearing around corners while the night staff watched with the particular dead-eyed patience of people who are paid not to react to things like this. It did not, apparently, align with the facility’s operational vision.

Basti, for his part, seemed content. Hair still perfect. Mood elevated. Determined to enjoy whatever time remained before his appointment with Igor—who was, depending on which version of events you believed, either his hometown butcher who had since retrained as a physician, or simply the most ominous name a doctor could have given the circumstances. Either way, Basti wanted to see the world one last time before going in.

Condolences, as always, welcome.