Sands resumed his position by Grace's bed. The doctor was back in the room, picking up where they had left off earlier.
"As I was saying," the doctor said, "one of her lungs was punctured, but we were able to repair the damage."
"So, she's O.K.?" Harold asked.
"Only time will truly tell, señor. Her body is fighting off any impending infections, so she is running a slight fever. When her body's ready, she'll wake up."
Harold sighed. "Thank you." The doctor left and Harold couldn't understand why Sands had been so silent. "Sheldon?"
"Yeah?"
"Can I…do anything for you?"
Sands swallowed and his grip on Grace's hand became slightly stronger. "How does she look?" she asked.
Hoping to lighten the mood a bit, Harold responded, "Even blind, you managed to pick out a looker."
Sands didn't crack the slightest of smiles. "I mean does she look bad? Hurt or sick or…"
"Oh." Harold understood. "I'm not sure that…"
"Tell me. Tell me everything, please." There was that word that rarely passed Sands' lips.
"She's pale," Harold started, his voice soft. "Her lips have that whitish look to them, they're probably dried out."
Sands let his free hand gently find her face, then her lips. "They are," he said. "And she's sweating."
Harold nodded silently. "Fever, remember?"
"I haven't cared since Rachel."
Harold walked to where Sands was sitting. "I know." He placed a comforting hand on Sands' shoulder. "What would have happened if Grace hadn't ended up in here?"
Sands let himself smile. "She…she asked me to go home with her."
"A ridiculous request?"
"I thought so. I even asked her what would happen after she got tired of me."
"And she said?"
"She wants me to go with her…and I fucking want to go, Harold. I don't have anything else anymore, do I?"
"Sheldon, I can't send you out into the field in your condition, you know that."
"Yeah…Can you believe I'm actually going to – I actually want – to just go and try to have a normal life?" He chuckled. "Well, it'll be some fucked up normalcy, but the gist of it…"
"You need to be grounded, Sheldon. You don't know how many times I've gotten phone calls from people wanting to lock you up. Speaking of that, why the hell were you killing off cooks down here?"
"Word got out, huh?"
"Yeah, word got out."
Sands leaned back a little. "Funny, I can't recall doing that…"
"Señor Rawlings?" A nurse entered the room, interrupting their conversation.
"Yes?" Harold answered.
"You are needed upstairs. Something has happened with the man who was being guarded."
"Sheldon, just stay here. I'll be right back." Harold rushed upstairs and found a doctor outside of Michael's room. "What's going on?" He was escorted into the room, Michael's lifeless body in full view.
"Your prisoner has…passed away, Señor Rawlings," the doctor replied.
"What?"
"He had an allergic reaction to the antibiotics. We did all we could, but the severity was…"
Harold did his best not to smile. "Don't worry, we won't file for malpractice. I'll send someone for the body." As fast as he could, he rushed back to Grace's room. His heart broke when he caught Sands kissing her non-responsive lips. "Uh…Sheldon?"
"Yeah?" He wasn't embarrassed in the least.
"You got your wish, Michael's dead."
Sands put his hands up. "Hey, I was right here the whole time."
Harold smiled. "No worries, it was an allergic reaction."
"He's really dead, not 'fake the death and get the crime boss to safety' dead?"
"Really dead."
Sands smiled. "Fucker's gone, Gracie," he whispered. "C'mon, wake up so I can tell you about how I was a good boy and didn't do it."
There was no change.