I'm half-expecting you to be gone by the time I get to the hospital, but when I poke my head in the room you're still there, laying on top of the covers in those stupid blue scrubs with your hands resting on your chest, staring up at the ceiling. The strange, distant expression you're wearing would look more at home on Grissom's face than it does on yours.

I want to back out of the room, but I guess I must have made some kind of noise because you roll your head over to look at me. Your face is slack and it takes a few seconds for your eyes to focus. The painkillers. I hope.

Hey, Nick.

Hey, man. I'm here to spring you.

I step the rest of the way into the room and let the door swing shut behind me. You blink and push yourself up until you're sitting against the wall, bare toes digging into the cheap hospital blankets. I hope your mother thought to put a pair of shoes in that bag.

Hope I didn't wake you up.

You sound almost right, but there's no animation in your voice. All the shades of meaning that should be there--teasing, innuendo, impatience--are absent.

Nah, man. It's cool.

I was going to catch a cab but my keys--my clothes--

They're in evidence. Your mom picked some stuff up from your place. And I have your spare keys.

Trying hard to keep my voice even as you close your eyes, briefly, but you take the backpack I hand you without a word. For several moments you don't move, and I'm wondering if I should offer to give you a hand when you finally slide out of bed, clutching the bag to your chest like a life preserver, and shuffle into the bathroom.

I sit down on the bed and stare at my hands until the door opens.

You look more normal like this, in jeans and a t-shirt printed with the name of a band I've never heard of, but your face is still guarded and wary. You sling the empty bag over your shoulder, moving stiffly.

Let's go.

I hesitate.

The nurse is bringing a wheelchair up.

Right.

You sink onto the bed next to me, hands on your knees.

I hate hospitals.

I know what you mean.

For me, it's the smell, the antiseptic smell of strong cleaners that isn't quite enough to hide the stink of sickness and death. It reminds me of Doc Robbins' office. You've spent even more time in the hospital over the past few years than I have, and part of me wants to make some kind of small talk about it. And really, that's a pretty sad commentary all on its own, because I never had any trouble talking to you but now I don't know what to say.

You're not talking either, and I don't want to open my mouth for fear of what might come spilling out of it. I shift my weight, look around the room. I was right about the plants. Most of them are looking a little wilted, and I'm betting they'd be entirely dead if the nurses' aids didn't come in and water them. The Marilyn Manson doll that Sara gave you is sitting on your nightstand. It's kind of creepy-looking and definitely hokey--right up your alley.

Sara came in to see me yesterday.

I glance up. You're looking at the doll, too.

Yeah. She told me.

I snapped at her. I should apologize.

She'll get over it.

Still. I feel bad. It's just--

You lift your left hand, make a vague gesture. The rope-burn on your wrist looks raw and painful.

I don't know. I don't know what to say to her.

You don't need to say anything, man.

Stop trying to make me feel better.

Your tone is sharp. I drop my head and nod.

Sorry.

You know, I've heard enough apologies over the past couple of days to last me for a month.

Sor--

I bite back the rest of the word. You snort, and when I look up your face has lost a little of that frightening stiffness.

I'm kind of being an asshole, aren't I?

I shrug, make my voice light. I'm not a very good actor, but I have to at least try, because you're not going to take sympathy. Not now.

You've had a rough week.

Yeah.

For a minute I think you're going to say something else, but then the nurse comes in with a wheelchair. It's the woman from a few days ago, the one who thought we were together. She gives me a little wink over the top of your head as she helps you fold your lanky frame into the chair, and I look away.

I'll let your friend wheel you out to the car, okay?

Sure.

Anything you want to take with you?

She's looking around the room at all the flowers and cards, the gift baskets and sagging helium balloons. It looks like the aftermath of a New Year's Eve party in here, minus the noisemakers. Normally I'd say that you fill that role just fine, but your voice is quiet when you speak.

Just that doll.

Of course, sweetheart.

I can tell that she doesn't understand, but she retrieves the doll and sets it in your lap, where it immediately starts listing to the side. I have to swallow a completely inappropriate bubble of laughter at the picture you make.

Then you twist a little to look up at me, mouth slanting into a crooked little grin, and I can see the chip in your bottom front tooth. Dennis Bierda was wearing rings when he was arrested, big, heavy silver rings. Those things are as good as brass knuckles for messing up a person's face.

Suddenly, I'm not having any trouble suppressing laughter anymore.

We're quiet on the ride over. I put the radio on. I know you don't like my country and I tell you to put on whatever you want, but after spinning through the stations three or four times, you leave it on 95.5 KWNR, and you stare out the window while Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss croon 'Whiskey Lullaby'. The telephone wires look like thick ropes of spiderweb strung from post to post, and I always forget how tawdry Vegas looks in the light of day.

I'm going to have to get a new car, I guess.

Your voice is neutral, and I can't tell whether or not you expect a response.

Damages to your car should be easy to repair. Pretty much just the windows.

Where your foot and head went through. You don't look over at me as you shake your head.

No. I never want to see that fucking thing again.

You love that car. Loved that car. I remember you showing it off in the parking lot when you first bought it. It was the first new car you'd ever bought, and I remember teasing you about how tiny it was, and you tilted your head and blinked at me and said something in an innocent tone about big trucks and male compensation. And I socked you on the shoulder and Warrick laughed when you started reciting auto stats in a rapid-patter that made you sound like an auctioneer.

I'm sure the insurance will pay out.

You shrug.

Doesn't matter. I make enough. Can you do me a favor?

Sure, man. Whatever you want.

Can you stop by a pharmacy? I have a couple of prescriptions to fill.

Vicodin and antibiotics, most likely. I pull into the least crowded Walgreen's I can find. I'm going to offer to go pick them up by myself, but you're already opening the door before I can finish the sentence.

Inside, it's cool and brightly lit. You hunch your shoulders like the sliding doors are going to attack you and head straight toward the back, head down, walking so fast that I almost have to jog to keep up. The last time I was in a store with you--picking up beer, I think, for an Xbox marathon--it took me about twenty minutes to drag you away from the magazine racks, but it doesn't look like that's going to be a problem today.

The lines at the pharmacy counter aren't long and I'm glad, because you're tenser than I've ever seen you. You're working hard to move normally, but it's like watching a marionette, and I know people notice. I can see on their faces that they're wondering what happened, because you look like you got run over by a Mack truck and between the limp and the bandaged hands, I'm not doing much better.

I was going to pick up a carton of ice-cream, something easy to eat with a sore mouth, but by the time the pharmacist hands over the paper bag of medication, you're wound so tight that I'm afraid you might have a panic attack right in the middle of the store if I don't get you out of there.

Back in the truck you close your eyes and grip the sides of your seat with both hands, anchoring yourself. I reach across the center console to pat your shoulder, but drop my hand when you look at it like it might bite you.

You alright, man?

Just drive, okay?

Your voice is high and tight. I swallow hard and nod and put the truck in gear.

Your apartment reminds me of a college dorm. The A/C is turned up enough to keep it cool and dry, but there's still that vague, musty smell that you get in places that haven't been used for a while. There are heavy-metal posters tacked haphazardly to the plaster walls, photos jammed into the doorframes and stuck to the fridge rather than framed.

One of them, held up with a magnet in the shape of a pineapple, catches my eye. In it, you're young and sporting a mohawk, standing on a crowded sidewalk with another young man. You're both wearing fishnets and leather, outfits that wouldn't be out of place at some of the freakier Vegas clubs, but you're grinning like kids on Halloween night.

You come up behind me, stop a few feet back.

Jeremy Heller. He got into med school. We were celebrating.

I turn. With your shoulders hunched and your shaggy hair hanging into your eyes, you hardly look like the same person as the kid in the picture. I wish I could say that it's just the bruises, but it isn't, and the contrast hurts me.

I can tell that you're expecting me to ask about him, but I don't. I don't need to. Everything I need to know is in the picture, in the casual way his hand is resting on your hip, the tilt of your body against his. He's an inch or so shorter than you, and I'm guessing he's probably good-looking under the heavy eye makeup.

Looks like one hell of a party.

You try to smile, then stop as the stitches in your lip pull.

Revenant. Goth club. That was really more Jeremy's scene than mine, but it was a good time.

What's he do now?

He's a pediatrician. He lives up by San Diego with his boyfriend. They're talking about adopting a little girl. It's all very Norman Rockwell.

You sound bitter. I look down as you dig the prescription bottles out of the bag and down four or five pills in quick succession without even reading the labels.

I'm going to bed.

You, uh--you want me to leave?

You kick your shoes off on your way toward the bedroom and don't look back.

You can stay. If you want.

It's not exactly an invitation, but at least you're not kicking me out. The bedroom door closes dully behind you and I bend down to untie my boots. I set them down neatly next to the pile of shoes in the entry hall, shrug out of my jacket and set that down too.

Your couch is a little short for me to stretch out on, but it's not too bad. I wedge a cushion under my head and listen to your shuffling footsteps on the other side of the wall as you move around.

The springs on your bed creak, and then there's silence. You don't snore, and I'm not sure whether or not you're actually sleeping at all, but it's not like I can go in there and check. Just letting me stay at all was way more of a concession than I was expecting from you and I'm not going to push my luck. Not now.

You don't have blackout curtains in your living room, but the shades keep out most of the light and I'm so tired that it probably wouldn't matter anyway. I turn my head in toward the couch, the scratchy synthetic fiber rough against my face, and let myself slide into sleep.

Three hours later, I wake up to the sound of screaming.