Susan Calvin is about to enter her second year as a psych resident at the Manhattan Hasbro teaching hospital when a violent crime strikes very close to home.   When she was young, Susan lost her mother in a terrible car wreck that also badly injured her father. She now believes the accident was orchestrated by government officials who wanted her parents dead. Susan has always known there was a faction of the U.S. government that wanted to hijack her father’s work for military use. Now it seems that faction is back.   As she struggles to overcome her pain and confusion, as well as deal with her studies, Susan finds herself hunted by violent antitech vigilantes who would revert mankind to the Dark Ages—and at the same time she’s being watched very closely by extremists who want high-tech genocide. Somehow she must find a way to stop them both. Praise for I, Robot: To Protect   “A thrilling climax provides plenty of action and excitement, forcing all to examine their values and to take action in an untenable situation.”—SFRevu   “Reichert is a gifted storyteller...engaging and captivating.”—SciFiChick.com   “An excellent homage to a milestone work in science fiction history.”—Night Owl Reviews   “Reichert not only manages to be true to Asimov’s vision but manages to write a story that is enjoyable even if you had never heard of Isaac before.”—Blogcritics Mickey Zucker Reichert is a pediatrician, parent, animal lover, and author of twenty-some novels including Renshai , Nightfall , Barakhai , and Bifrost series, one illustrated novella, and fifty-plus short stories. She can be found at mickeyzuckerreichert.com. Winter Wine Dementia Facility had a distinctive odor Susan finally decided represented a unique combination of body odor, urine, disinfectants, and 2–nonenal, the musty omega–7 fatty acid degradation product known in slang as “old person’s smell.” The front entrance brought Susan and Kendall into a clean waiting area with neat rows of chairs on a deep blue carpet, off–white walls, and an enormous desk surrounded by windows. Hallways branched off on either side of the desk, where a middle–aged woman dressed in white scrubs leaned over a pile of papers. She looked up as the residents entered, then smiled. “You must be the new doctors.” “We must be,” Kendall said, striding forward with his right hand extended. “Kendall Stevens and Susan Calvin reporting for duty.” He jabbed his left thumb over his shoulder. “That one’s Susan.” Susan let the door snap closed behind her. Still grinning, the woman took Kendall’s hand. “Well, I certainly hope so, Dr. Stevens.” Susan stepped forward. “Just call me Susan, please. If you say Dr. Calvin, I’ll be looking over my shoulder for my father.” The woman dropped Kendall’s hand to take Susan’s and give it a brief shake. “Ah, so you followed in his medical footsteps.” “Only if you consider robotics medical.” Susan reclaimed her hand. “He has a PhD in engineering.” “Ah,” the woman said. “That kind of doctor.” There was a hint of condescension in her tone, which bothered Susan. She never understood why people gave less credence to university doctorates than medical–school graduates. Kendall must have noted it, also, and came to the subtle defense of PhD’s everywhere. “I’m sure Dr. Calvin could diagnose what ails you, too. If, for example, you were an exponential assembly unit having difficulty with your kinematic influence coefficients.” Silence followed the remark, during which the woman studied Kendall as if trying to determine whether he had insulted her. Apparently deciding he had not, she smiled again. “I’m Hazel Atkinson. I’m a CNA. Most medical receptionists are these days, so we can pull double duty.” Susan nodded. It made sense for medical centers of all types to hire certified nursing assistants as receptionists so the front–desk personnel had at least a minimal understanding of medical terminology and could help in a crisis. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Atkinson.” “Hazel,” she corrected, to Susan’s relief. It would seem entirely weird for the CNA to address the doctor by her first name while the doctor used the receptionist’s title. “Let me show you around.” Susan appreciated that. She still suffered from suffocating ennui, and the July 1 date only made it seem worse. The sooner they jumped into medical work, even of a depressing nature, the better. Hazel pointed to the hallway to the right of her station. “That’s the entrance to the foyer, where we take the families through to see their loved ones.” Susan caught a glimpse of the same fresh blue carpeting and clean walls as in the entry room before being herded down the left hallway. Her soles clicked against worn tile flooring, and the walls, though the same color, looked infinitely drabber. Though well scrubbed, they had clearly not been painted for years. The odor Susan had parsed earlier grew stronger and more unpleasant as they wandered farther into the bowels of Winter Wine Dementia Facility, and the hallway