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here.”
    There was something about Dylan that Tyler didn’t like. Was it the wild, blond spiked hair? The tattoos that peeked out under his shirtsleeves? Or the fact that the scar on the left side of his head indicated he was likely another of Thomas Reeves’s patients?
    Why don’t I know about him?
    â€œSure,” Tyler said. “Just not very comfortable here in the hallway.”
    â€œNo worries. I’ll find something to occupy myself.”
    Tyler nodded and gave two quick raps on the wooden door. Then he entered the examination room.
    Reeves’s institute tried to do a lot of things differently . Exam rooms were devoid of the normal vinyl-covered rectangular wooden tabletop and instead had a few comfortable chairs. His patient was Scott Clarke, a former Navy SEAL. Scott sat on the edge of the leather recliner. Tyler took the padded, dinner-table-style chair that sat near a wall off to the side. Tyler settled back in his seat, but Scott remained on the edge of his.
    Most people thought of Navy SEALs in the same vein as the wrestler and ex–Minnesota governor Jesse Ventura—big, husky, and able to split a baseball bat in two with a swift karate chop. Wasn’t the truth always stranger than what the mind thought of as the ideal?
    Navy SEALs were trained to blend into any environment they were tasked to infiltrate. At times, getting into remote, barren wildernesses required stealthy agility. Scott was the ideal. Average height. Weight about one hundred ninety pounds. Thin. Quick reflexes. Fast on his feet. His dark brown hair still sported the military-style haircut even though he’d been honorably discharged from military service last month. The only reason Tyler remembered that fact was he’d received a letter about the change in his patient’s military status the same day their daughter, Teagan, was admitted to the PICU.
    â€œGood to see you, Scott,” Tyler said, opening his patient file. “What brings you in today?”
    The former SEAL leaned his elbows into his knees and tapped his feet against the floor, his face pressed into his hands. The behavior seemed more in line with a nervous ten-year-old than a trained military man.
    â€œScott?”
    When Scott lifted his head and his steely, gray-green, reddened eyes zeroed in, his demeanor fed into Tyler’s anxiety about the day.
    â€œWhat brings you here?” Tyler asked again.
    â€œI want the graft out.”
    Tyler sighed. “Scott . . . it’s just not feasible. The graft is fused to your own cells. Dividing them out would be impossible. These cells have created a network with your own. They’re intertwined.”
    Scott’s shoulders sagged at the words. He looked as if he would slump to the floor.
    â€œTell me what’s going on. I can only help you if you let me in on some of the things you’re feeling.”
    The patient inhaled and went for the packet of cigarettes in his front pocket, then seemingly realized where he was and shoved it back down. “It’s just too much. I can’t explain it.”
    â€œTry?”
    â€œIt’s painful. Not in a physical sense but . . .”
    Tyler crossed his legs and set the open file there, waiting for the man to continue. The military wasn’t the best at providing for the mental health needs of its soldiers—possibly because they were equally as unwilling to talk openly about thoughts and feelings. A sure recipe for disaster.
    A crazed smile crossed Scott’s face. “It almost works too good.”
    â€œIs that possible? Wouldn’t you say these increased skills were part of the reason you were awarded the Silver Star?”
    He ignored the implication. “Who would’ve thought these doctored-up neurons would actually do what you said they’d do?”
    â€œWell, honestly, you’d have to thank Dr. Reeves for that. The whole protocol, the idea behind it, came