Lindsey Graham

You're a journalist with one of Chicago's major newspapers, and you're walking down a hallway of a hospital in Evanston, Illinois, approximately 15 miles north of Chicago.

You hurry past a nurse who's eyeing you suspiciously and then duck into a room.

A broad-shouldered man in his thirties with light brown wavy hair is lying in the bed.

He waves his hand, gesturing for you to leave.

Hey, this is a private room.

Get out of here.

Hey, relax, Bugs.

I just want to talk to you.

Who are you calling Bugs?

I don't know anyone named Bugs.

Give it a rest.

I know who you are.

I'm telling you, you got the wrong guy.

I'm just an ordinary Joe with the flu.

I need my rest.

Scram.

you approach the bed.

Look, I can make a call right now, tip off the police or your enemies, or you can talk to me, and no one will know about this until the evening paper comes out, giving you plenty of time to move on.

man glares at you for a moment, and for a second you think he might punch you, but then he relents.

Fine, you found me, but you're wasting your time.