A few more hours passed before the doctor reemerged.  In that time, Harold had gotten Sands to calm down, eat something, and agree to the surgery he was going to be given.  Sands sat in a chair next to Grace's bed, holding her hand in his.  She was unconscious, but he didn't mind – he simply had to be near her.

            In a voice that had lost every bit of its edge, Sands asked.  "When will she wake up?"  Harold saw the doctor's face, it didn't hold the amount of hope he wished it would have. 

"Well," the doctor began, "the wounds were…"

"Wounds?" Sands interrupted.  "What do you mean wounds?  There were only two shots – I only heard two shots.  One hit the door and one hit Grace."

"No, señor, you must have missed one.  There are two entrance wounds in her back.  One punctured her lung and…"

"That fucking son of a bitch…"

"Easy, Sands," Harold warned.  "What are you thinking?"

"Michael…he fucking shot her."  Reluctantly, Sands let go of Grace's hand.  "Dr., can we finish this conversation in a few minutes?"

Unaware of what Sands was planning, the doctor said, "Of course."

"He's here, isn't he, Harold?  He has to leave with you, so he's here, right?"

Harold shook his head.  "I can't let you…"

"Take me to him.  I'm not asking you to leave me alone with him.  I need to know it was him first."

"Sands…"

"You know I'll find a way to get to him – at least this way you don't have wonder what I'm up to."

A sigh of surrendering came from the man's mouth.  "Fine."  He took Sands arm and guided him out of the room.  At least I won't fire myself for this…

The men went to a different floor of the hospital and approached a heavily guarded room.  After clearing who they were, the guards let them in.  Michael was propped up in his bed, his face bruised and swollen from Sands' beating.  The man had the gull to smile.

"She dead?" he asked.

"What the fuck did you just say?" Sands asked, not able to believe what he had just heard.

Michael raised his voice.  "Is your whore dead yet?"

Sands walked toward Michael's bed.  "You shot her," he said, his teeth all but gnashing together. 

Michael smiled.  "You were looking right at me when I did it.  I aimed for you, but I missed.  Thought you didn't care since you didn't try to stop me."

"Used a fucking silencer and already had it fucking cocked…"

"What?"

Sands tore of his glasses.  "I couldn't fucking see you!"

"Fuck!  Where the hell are your eyes?"

"Uh, Sands?" Harold said.

"I'm going to fucking kill you!" Sands screamed, he lunged towards Michael's voice, but Harold grabbed a hold of him.  "Let me the fuck go!"  He got out of Harold's grasp and reached out, finding Michael's throat.  He had only just begun to squeeze when Harold succeeded at pulling him back.  "She could die because of him!"  His voice had become desperate.

Michael rubbed his throat.  "She's better off dead, you fucking freak."

A sound that was nearly inhuman escaped Sands' lips and Harold knew that trying to stop him again would only result in getting injured himself.  He turned his back and closed his eyes.  Sands put one hand on Michael's forehead, the other over his nose and throat, the man couldn't move, or breathe.  Killing someone never had any consequences that Sands worried about before, but suddenly his mind was racing.

What if I get locked up for this?  What if they think I'm fucking insane and lock me up for killing him?  He's in a fucking hospital bed, he can't defend himself…  Gracie…  Michael passed out again and Sands let up.  He turned away and Harold turned around, relieved to hear the heart monitor was still registering life.

"He's alive?" Harold asked.

Sands shook his head.  "He tried to kill me, Harold, and he's why Grace is here…but I can't do it anymore.  She took my edge from me."

"She didn't," Harold insisted.  "She's just made you – pardon the word – see that things actually have consequences."

"If she dies…"

"I'll bring you back up here myself, no questions asked."