Chapter 14: Pity the Stray

Even without windows to let in the light, the cell block grew darker as the afternoon waned.

Remus had tried to take a nap, but he couldn't stay still; restlessness was one of the symptoms of the approaching moon. When he was not trapped in an eight-foot by eight-foot cell, the restlessness often proved beneficial, and he'd accomplished many a task while riding the tidal wave of energy the day of the full moon. Cramped into the tiny cell, he could do nothing but pace.

He made use of every inch of the cell for his pacing. His stomach churned, his mouth felt like cotton, his eyes stung, and his head ached. To feel this miserable, he should have had a hell of a wild time the night before.

He was hot, and, finally deciding that his modesty could go to hell, he shed the blanket and paced in the nude. Lara had taken the parchment and pens when she left for the evening, so he couldn't make a note to himself to mention this, which was just one more part of the general discomfort of the cells. The Warming Charms that had made the cells bearable earlier were now stifling, and the pungent odor of twenty-four men sweating threatened to suffocate. The guards had been evacuated for the evening already and would not be back until morning, and by then the Warming Charms would have worn off again, but by then there would be twenty-four men curled up under blankets, shivering.

It was precisely backward.

His fingers tingled, his toes felt numb, his neck was stiff, his back cramping. No matter how many times he stretched, no matter how many times he cracked his knuckles, he couldn't find relief.

His ears were ringing, his nose stuffy, his eyes beginning to water. His skin prickled, as though his entire body had been asleep and was now on pins and needles. He breathed deeply, but couldn't seem to fill his lungs.

When he felt like his chest was going to cave in, Remus returned to the straw pallet, folded his blanket, then waited.

He felt it first in his mouth, and that was the most excruciating part of the transformation. As he closed his eyes against the pain of teeth that normally lay dormant shoving their way through his gums. The acrid taste of blood filled his mouth, and a bitter bile rose in his throat. He was breathing harder now, and he wrapped his arms around himself.

A sudden cramp wrenched at his gut, and he doubled over, folding in on himself until he could compact himself no further. Trembling, he tried to focus on something else, but there was nothing but the floor stones to look at. He squeezed his eyes shut again, and a chill coursed down his spine as he heard the first howl of the night.

The howl was followed by another, then another and another, ear-splitting, blood-curdling sounds that echoed through the cells and ricocheted off the walls. Even knowing that he was one of the safest people in the world just now—that he was locked in a stone cell that he couldn't get out of and no one else could get into, and that even if he were attacked, he couldn't be infected again—the sound of the howls sent sharp daggers of fear to the innermost recesses of his soul.

He tried to block out the howls, but he couldn't. His breathing became shallow, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, and then suddenly, it was as though he'd stepped out of a fog.

He lifted his head, looking around at the cell, disoriented. His vision was clearer, but there was nothing to look at and that struck him as odd at first. His hearing was sharper, but the howls and whimpers of his companions no longer sent chills up his spine; they struck a chord of loneliness in his heart. He shook himself and padded across the cell, his claws clicking on the floor stones.

Another howl, lonesome and longing, filled the cell block, and he could hear the difference between it and the responding call. He curled up in the corner closest to the door, his chin resting on his front paws as he listened to the mournful exchange.

The Wolfsbane potion allowed him to keep his mind, but his thoughts were still decidedly wolfish, in as much as they were thoughts at all. The part of his mind that knew language had been replaced with a part of his mind that sifted scents and sounds into useful information, so he did not have the words to express, even to himself, the creeping despair of solitude. When one of the others called, though, his ears perked, then lay flat again as he remembered that he could not join them.

That was the difference between taking the Wolfsbane and not taking it—when he took it, he remembered that it would do no good to rage against the walls and doors that bound him. When he did not, he would have spent half the night trying to find a way to join his brothers. As it was, he spent half the night listening to them trying to find a way to join each other.

"…cold down here. Get some more blankets…"

Detached voices floated in and out of his mind, like fireflies flickering in the distance. He could hear them, but he didn't understand one word in ten.

"…wonder how long he's been here…"

He was cold and stiff, and every joint in his body ached. His ears were ringing, his head was pounding, his throat was scratchy, his shoulder and hip were particularly sore. He felt hands on his back, and the world spun as he was repositioned. He didn't have to open his eyes to know that his orientation had just changed.

"…doesn't appear to have any injuries…"

He was lifted off the floor, his arms and legs hanging limply, fingers and feet brushing against the cold stones. A warm, soft cotton enveloped him, and when he was lowered, it was to a softer surface than the floor. His head was lifted, then lowered onto a cushion of some sort.

"…stiff and cold, probably in a fair bit of pain, but all right…"

He forced his eyes open, and saw nothing but a blinding green that made his eyes hurt. He closed them again, deciding he didn't care to see what was going on after all.

"Remus? Remus, look at me."

His head felt like it weighed a ton, but he turned it towards the sound of the voice and opened his eyes again. He recognized that face, plump and pretty with rosy cheeks and soft eyes, but he couldn't remember her name.

"Remus, do you know if someone is coming to get you this morning?"

Something was wrong with that question. "Saturday," he rasped. That was it. It was Saturday, and that meant something.

Her face darkened for a moment, then she smiled at him, smoothing his hair. "Yes," she replied. "It's Saturday." He closed his eyes again, deciding that his part in the conversation was over.

"Take him or not?"

"Go on and take him," she said. "I'm not even sure anyone knows he was here. If anyone comes looking for him, I'll send them your way."

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then he was lifted. They kept turning him, one way and then another until he couldn't keep up with which way he was pointing. He'd worry about that later. Right now, he'd sleep.

The first thought that clawed its way to the surface of the chaos that was his consciousness was that the floor was softer than he remembered it being. It didn't seem out of place to think this because he always woke curled up on the floor after a full moon, and even in his disoriented state, he recognized that he was awaking after a full moon. That should mean that he was curled up somewhere—in a storage room at headquarters or a dank root cellar or a Ministry holding cell, possibly on the floor in his bedroom or in his office if he'd had access to the Wolfsbane this month. Months faded together if he wasn't careful, so he was never entirely sure upon waking whether he remembered the night before or the month before or three years before.

He opened his eyes, then closed them again, his pupils rebelling against the bright light. Whatever month it was, it would still be that month when he woke again.

When he woke again, it was still bright, though the brightness wasn't as blinding as it had been. After blinking a few times, his surroundings came into focus. He was in a bed, but not a familiar one. The plain white sheet was soft, as though it had been washed many times, and the blanket was light. He rested at a slight incline, and when he turned his head, instead of the wall that he was expecting, he saw a white curtain, partially drawn. He turned his head the other direction, and saw another bed, with another partially drawn curtain.

A glass of water sat on the table beside him, and seeing it made him realize how parched his lips were. He reached for it, then stopped, frowning as he noticed that he was wearing a robe that was not his. Forgetting the water, he leaned back against his pillow, frowning at his surroundings.

"Ah, you're awake. I thought I saw you move."

He turned his head towards the sound of the voice and found a smiling witch standing at the foot of his bed, her lime green robe blinding against all the sterile white. His face must have shown how perplexed he felt, because she patted his thigh as she drew closer to his side.

"You're in St. Mungo's," she said. It was a needless explanation; he knew that much.

"How..?" he began, but his voice was dry and raspy, reminding him that he wanted that glass of water. He reached for it, but she reached it first, and steadied his hands between hers as he drank.

"How did I get here?" he asked after he'd finished the water.

"We brought you," she replied. "Now lie back." He obeyed, and she flicked her wand at him, sending a ribbon of pale yellow light rippling over his chest and head. When the light receded, she tapped a box on the wall, and a piece of parchment came out of it. "Are you ready for something to eat?" she asked as she looked over the parchment.

Remus nodded, and the witch cleared a spot on the table, then waved her wand in a slow circle over it. A tray of food appeared, and tantalizing smells wafted to Remus' nose. She leaned over him, lifted him into a seated position and conjured a few extra pillows to prop behind his back.

"How's that?" she asked.

"Fine, thank you."

She tapped the table with her wand and it extended over the bed. She lifted the cover from the dish, and Remus sighed wistfully—a bowl of broth was not his idea of the perfect meal after being trapped in the Ministry for…

"What day is it?" he asked, frowning again.

"Saturday," she replied, unfolding his napkin and dropping it in his lap.

"How did I get here again?"

"Some of our Healers brought you from the Ministry," she answered, picking up his spoon. She dipped the spoon into the broth and held it to his lips. "Slowly," she instructed. "It may be too hot."

He had little choice but to take the spoonful of broth, as she was pressing the spoon against his lips, but after he swallowed, he reached for the spoon. "Why?" he asked.

"Why? Because we keep it heating until—oh, you mean why you're here?"

"Yes."

"We always take in the werewolves no one picks up. You'll stay here until someone comes to get you or until you're well enough to leave on your own. A little more broth?" She took the spoon away from him, apparently not satisfied with his ability to eat on his own, and pressed another spoonful to his lips, once again giving him the choice of swallowing or spilling it all over himself.

"Always since when?" he asked, taking the spoon away from her again.

"Since August," she replied. He swallowed more of the broth in an attempt to keep her from trying to feed him again. "In August, there were still werewolves in the cells almost a week after the full moon, so the Ministry called us to take them. Since then, we come mid-morning the first day after the full moon."

"But you said it's Saturday."

"It is."

"The Ministry is closed on Saturday."

"Well, yes and no. Miss Berkeley decided that since the full moon fell on a Friday night that it would be cruel to keep you all in the cells over the weekend. Don't you want a little more broth?"

He'd paused, and she took the opportunity to reach for his spoon again.

"No," he said, placing his hand over hers. "I'm not hungry after all."

"You need to eat," she chided. "Just a few more bites? For me?" She pressed the spoon against his lips again, and at her coaxing, he finished half the bowl and drank the glass of juice she'd brought him. It was hard to convincingly tell someone that he wasn't hungry when he knew she could hear his stomach growling.

"What time is it?" he asked as she rearranged his pillows again, then lowered him back onto the bed.

"About three," she replied. "Get some more sleep?"

That, at least, was easy to do.

When he woke again, he was half expecting to be told to go home, but instead he was served another bowl of beef broth and another glass of apple juice, this time under the supervision of a young wizard.

"Can't I have real food?" Remus asked. It never hurt to ask.

The wizard grinned and patted his shoulder. "You're getting stronger if you think you're ready for solid food. Maybe tomorrow. It's not a good idea right now, though. Your stomach is still weak."

Remus gave him a skeptical look, and the pause was apparently long enough to prompt the green-clad wizard to decide Remus wasn't going to eat on his own. He proved more difficult to get the spoon back from, and Remus didn't have the energy for the fight. The wizard spooned almost the entire bowl of broth down Remus' throat, then suggested that he get some more sleep as he turned out the light and drew the curtain around the bed. As Remus drifted off to sleep again, he wondered if this was more or less dignified than spending the day in the cell would have been.

Remus woke three more times during the night, and each time, a new witch or wizard appeared at his bedside. He suffered the humiliation of being escorted to the toilet by a pink-cheeked young witch he might have flirted with under other circumstances, and he obligingly consumed two more bowls of broth and enough juice to float a ship. When he woke for the sixth time, it was after dawn on Sunday morning, and he was one of three who remained on the ward.

"So who do I have to bribe to get to go home?" he asked the witch who brought his breakfast—dry toast and tea seemed almost a feast after a day of broth.

The witch laughed. "We'll keep you here until someone comes to fetch you or until you're strong enough to fend for yourself," she replied, patting his shoulder.

He hid a scowl in his teacup; he was tired of feeling like a stray animal. At least there was light at the end of the tunnel. If Diana had notified Arthur or Dumbledore or Severus as he'd asked her to, then someone should be coming to collect him soon enough. Waiting for someone to come took less energy than arguing, and as he settled back into the bed, he rationalized that there was really very little difference between spending the morning asleep in St. Mungo's and spending the day asleep at headquarters.

If anything, it was quieter here.

He passed the morning drifting in and out of sleep, and at noon, one of the witches from earlier nudged him awake and suggested that he have lunch. He agreed after a few weak protests—he'd been hoping that he would be having one of Molly's meals for lunch. Over-cooked pork chops were a poor substitute even for Diana's unimpressive dinners. He ate half the meal, then settled back in the bed again, waiting.

Once, he considered just leaving, but the thought lacked appeal. The hospital robe was something less than modest, he didn't have his shoes and he didn't have his wand, and he didn't think he'd get far in London in the state he was in.

The afternoon dragged on.

Every time he tried to sit up, one of the Healers would rush over to him, and the attention was beginning to grate on his nerves, so he stopped sitting up. For lack of anything better to do, he went back to sleep. His naps became shorter, alternating with periods of lying in the bed and staring at the door.

Once, the door opened and an elderly wizard arrived, offering a folder to the supervising Healer. A few minutes later, one of the remaining werewolves left, clad in a shabby robe, his head hanging. It had started to grow dark again when a witch came with his dinner. He thanked her, and left the tray sitting untouched on the bedside table. Surely someone would come before nightfall. They wouldn't leave him here.

Would they?

Apparently they would. At nine o'clock, a disembodied witch's voice announced that visiting hours had ended. One by one, the lights went out on the ward until the only two left burning were the one by his bed and the one across the room, by the other werewolf's bed.

"Don't you want to have some dinner?" asked the wizard who had spooned broth down his throat the day before.

"No."

"You need to eat something. You'll never regain your strength if you don't."

"I'm not hungry."

"Just a few bites? The roll, perhaps?"

Remus sighed, and sat up, not bothering to protest as the wizard arranged the pillows behind his back. The roll was tasteless, but he ate it, along with a few bites of carrots and one spoonful of pudding. The wizard just shook his head as he took the tray away, leaving Remus to lie down again.

Some time after eleven, his light went out, and he stared into the darkness, alone with his thoughts as he had been so often over the past few days. His mind flitted over the shock of discovering he was going to have to stay at the Ministry, and it danced past those first two horrible nights in the cells. Everything anyone in the Ministry did or had done paled in comparison to lying in this bed, staring at the shadowy form of the curtain, knowing that he could have been at headquarters if anyone had cared enough to come get him.

And what prevents you from just leaving? asked an annoyingly practical voice.

He had a dozen excuses, including but not limited to the fact that his clothes and wand and what little money he'd had in his pockets were presumably still locked in Lara's office. He supposed he could manage to find his way back to the Black house without his things, but when it came down to it, he didn't want to.

He wanted someone to come and claim him.

He wanted Molly to come and pick him up, to bustle him back to the basement kitchen and plunk a plate of whatever she'd cooked for dinner in front of him and to bustle around, clucking her tongue and mothering him.

Barring that, he wanted Arthur to come and put a hand on his shoulder and to chase Molly away, telling her firmly that he needed to rest. Or he wanted Dumbledore to come with his twinkling eyes and offer him candy while they made their way back to headquarters. Or he wanted Severus to come and tell him bluntly to get up off his arse and get dressed because he had no intention of carrying him.

He'd have settled for anyone, but he wanted someone to give enough of a damn to put aside their busy lives and come for him.

If it were anyone else in the Order, he'd have been there as soon as the Ministry allowed it. He wouldn't have left anyone to spend even one extra night in this place. He would never let any of his friends wonder if anyone even remembered they were alive.

With such pleasant thoughts to keep him company, the night crept by at a snail's pace.

"I'm sorry. My hands are tied. Surely you understand regulations, Arthur?"

"Damn it, Lara! I don't want to hear about regulations."

Lara folded her arms and stared at her bookshelf, her back to her uninvited guest. This was the third time she'd had this conversation with a member of the Weasley family—first it had been Molly, who was quite difficult to put off; then it had been the eldest boy, whom she remembered as a classmate. Now it was Arthur, who was always so mild-mannered and understanding, and who worked for the Ministry and should really understand what it meant to be bound by rules and regulations.

"Put yourself in my shoes, Arthur," she said, trying to reason with him again. "I'm responsible for the safety and well-being of all those werewolves who turn themselves in. Am I supposed to believe the word of every witch or wizard who comes in claiming to be a friend of one of them? Remus noted two contacts—Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape. So unless you can prove to me that you're one of those two wizards, there's nothing I can do."

"Albus is in Switzerland," Arthur argued. "I told you that. He's at an International Magical Education Standards conference. I can't get in touch with Severus. I've been trying. You remember that day when you and Remus spoke to me in the corridor. He sent a witch to tell me that he was even here!"

"I can't, Arthur. Remus selected his contacts, and he didn't mention you."

"Then go ask him if he wants to come with me! I'm not proposing you let me just levitate him out into the streets of London." Arthur walked around Lara's desk and bent so that he was eye level with her. "He's a friend. Can't you appreciate that? I don't want to know that he's locked up in one of those cells. I just want to take him home. Don't you think he'd rather be at home?"

"Does he have a home?" she asked, looking at Arthur. "He won't give us an address. He just says to send his post care of Albus Dumbledore and he insists that—"

"He can stay at my home," Arthur interrupted.

"I thought your home burned down over the summer?"

Arthur spun away from her. "Stop changing the subject! Just ask him, Lara. Ask him if he wants to come with me."

"I can't," she snapped. "He isn't here."

"Then where is he?"

"I've already told you more than I'm supposed to."

"Lara—"

"Arthur, if you don't stop harassing me, I'm going to call the guards. It is my job to see to the welfare of the werewolves in the United Kingdom and I can't do that if I'm taking out an ad in the Prophet announcing their whereabouts."

Arthur folded his arms and stared at her for a minute, his face clouded with more than sympathy for a werewolf. It didn't take much by way of imagination to guess that he wasn't impressed with the implication that he couldn't be trusted.

"Fine," he said, reaching for the door. "Just think about something, would you? Just how are you helping him by keeping him away from his friends?" He slammed the door behind him, and she sank into her chair.

She picked up Remus' folder and opened it, skimming the information for what must have been the hundredth time since she'd sent him to St. Mungo's. Nothing had changed. He had listed two contacts, and she wasn't even supposed to give out their names. She believed Arthur when he said he was Remus' friend, though, and she had hoped that he would be able to get in touch with either Snape or Dumbledore.

Saturday afternoon, and again on Sunday, Lara had been tempted to send an owl to Hogwarts, but she wasn't supposed to do that either. There was a long list of things she wasn't supposed to do, and they all came down to a single, simple rule: she was not supposed to get involved.

She wasn't supposed to touch them, she certainly wasn't supposed to wrap them in her arms. She wasn't supposed to invite them to dinner, nor to allow anyone except care-givers into the room with them. She did all of those things, though. When Edward Murphy wanted Remus to accompany him, Lara left the decision up to Remus and Edward's mother. When Severus Snape came bursting into the room while she was conducting a monthly interview with Remus, she suffered his presence because Remus seemed not to mind his being there. She tolerated a lot that she wasn't supposed to allow.

And she was tempted to hand Remus' belongings over to Arthur Weasley and allow Arthur to sign him out. After all, Arthur was another Ministry official and she did remember him recognizing Remus, and Remus recognizing him in return.

She also remembered the cool reception Remus had given him.

She remembered a comment Remus had made to Snape about 'Molly's cooking'. But Molly was a common name and could have referred to any number of women.

She wanted to get Remus out of St. Mungo's, but that wasn't her decision. She'd signed Remus over to the Healers, and it wasn't her place to decide if he was capable of making decisions about his well-being. The report she had this morning stated that Remus Lupin was one of two werewolves remaining on the ward that had been set aside specifically for that purpose, and that Remus was not showing any indication of being capable of or interested in caring for himself. The notes on his report indicated that he was 'passive' and 'not eating without coaxing'. He hadn't shown any interest in getting out of his bed, and the time he spent sleeping indicated that he was still suffering the trauma of the transformation.

Lara thought it more likely that he was suffering the trauma of his imprisonment—he didn't take to that as well as some of the other werewolves had. When she thought about what he'd said about psychological torture, she thought it quite probable that his seeming disinterest was born of depression, not an inability to care for himself. He was the last one she would have considered incapable of caring for himself.

That wasn't her call, though, any more than it was her call to give his belongings to Arthur.

Perhaps, though, she would be justified in calling on Remus. After all, she had an appointment at St. Mungo's later this morning to begin documenting the new bites, so perhaps it wouldn't be too much of a stretch that she would check on the two werewolves still on the ward.

Feeling a little better about the situation, she looked at her clock—her first appointment would be as soon as they opened the doors.

A little after ten, Lara Apparated to St. Mungo's, only a few minutes before she was scheduled to begin. Her appointments this morning had taken longer than she'd anticipated, and she'd had the very unpleasant duty of trying to explain to Cynthia Reynolds how her father had died in Ministry custody. Lara knew that the explanation did not satisfy the zealous witch, and she was sure she hadn't heard the end of it, but Cynthia had left her office finally.

Weighing her options, Lara tried to decide if it would be the lesser of the evils to visit Remus first and get a late start on the rest of her morning, or to arrive to her appointment early and hopefully finish ahead of schedule, then have time for a leisurely conversation with Remus over lunch.

She decided to pay him a visit first.

When she walked into the ward, what she saw horrified her, and she forgot all about her ten-thirty meeting. The new werewolves could wait.

Remus lay curled on his side in the bed, the blanket clutched in his fist, a tray of food untouched on the table beside him. When Lara drew near him, she saw the blank expression on his face, and it sent a chill down her spine—he looked like a man who had given up.

"Remus?" She dropped her briefcase on the floor and placed a hand on his shoulder. He didn't so much as twitch an eyelash. Smoothing his hair back from his forehead, she leaned over him. "Aren't you even going to say hello?"

He raised his eyes to her for a moment, then averted them again, saying nothing.

"I'll settle for 'go to hell'," she joked, but he closed his eyes. Her heart wrenched.

She moved to the other side of the bed and sat gingerly beside him, bracing her hands on his shoulders. As she turned him onto his back, he didn't protest.

"I don't really need to ask how you're doing, do I?" she asked, prying his fingers off the blanket so she could hold his hand. "I suppose it's as good a conversation starter as anything else, though, isn't it? How are you feeling?"

His response was a puff of air, redolent of a disbelieving snort.

"That good, huh?" Lara asked, massaging his palm. He tried to turn away from her, but she stopped him with a hand on his cheek. "Look at me, Remus," she said softly, brushing her thumb against his cheek. "I need you to talk to me."

He closed his eyes again. "What do you expect me to say?" he asked, his voice hoarse and broken.

"I had a report this morning that you're not taking much interest in your recovery. Maybe you could start by telling me what happened to the man who reads every scrap of parchment before signing it?"

"It doesn't do any good," he replied, his tone expressionless. "It doesn't matter if I read it or not, I'm going to sign it because I have no other option. And this is what the Ministry wants, isn't it? Compliance."

"Compliance," Lara agreed. "Not complacency."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want you to convince the Healers that you're capable of taking care of yourself, just like you and I both know you are, so that you can go home."

"So that I can come back next month."

"Remus, listen to me. You don't want to spend the rest of your life in this bed. I don't understand what you're waiting for."

"I don't expect you to understand."

She squeezed his hand. "Would you say that I'm generally a compassionate person?" she asked. "Not that I have an innate understanding of everything, but that in general, I care?"

After a brief hesitation, he nodded.

"All right. I try very hard to listen and to understand when you bring concerns to me. Would you say that I succeed? Again, I know that sometimes your quibble is that you shouldn't have to point these things out to me, but when you do, would you say that I listen?"

He nodded again.

"And would you say that I respond to your concerns? Maybe not with the answer you want to hear, but do I respond and take action where I can?"

His nod was barely perceptible this time.

"So is it, perhaps, a logical conclusion that even if I don't necessarily pick up on everything I should, that I am willing to learn from you and to look at situations from your perspective?"

He nodded again, averting his eyes.

She brushed her thumb against his cheek again, and he looked back at her. "I need you to help me see this from your perspective," she said, her eyes searching his. "I can't help if I don't know what's wrong."

For a moment, he looked as though he might respond. Only for a moment, though.

"Remus?"

"I'm just tired," he said at last.

She knew better than that. She had eyes and she could see that his eyes had become dull and lifeless. She had ears and she could hear that his voice was flat and broken. She had a report that told her that he'd spent the last two days in bed and that there was nothing physically wrong with him. She didn't have to be a Healer to know that 'tired' was a euphemism for 'depressed', and she was reasonably certain that she knew the cause for his depression.

"Five days is a long time, isn't it?" she asked, shifting so that she could drape an arm around his shoulders.

He stiffened, but she pulled him closer, and after a series of false starts, he leaned against her.

"I spoke with Arthur Weasley this morning. He was asking after you."

"I hope you told him to go to hell."

Lara's eyes widened and she frowned at the top of Remus' head, suddenly relieved that she hadn't told the Weasleys where to find him. "Not on the best of terms with Arthur?"

"Not at the moment."

She smoothed his hair, and he flinched, so she dropped her hand. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked, tightening her embrace a bit.

"No." His fingers flexed within her palm, though, and then he amended, "Nothing that you're not already doing."

"I wish I could sit here all day," she whispered, hugging him closer. She touched his hair hesitantly, and he didn't flinch away this time, so she began smoothing it away from his face again. "You know I can't, though."

"I know."

"I have to go to a meeting. I should already be there, in fact, but I wanted to check on you. I'll come see you again before I leave. All right?"

He nodded, and pulled away from her. She had a brief glimpse of his face before he turned onto his side, his back to her as he curled up. His mouth was open, his eyes closed, a deep line furrowing his brow. He looked as though someone had poured alcohol over open wounds.

"I'll see you in a couple of hours," she said, reaching for her briefcase. "Oh, and I brought you something." She opened the case and pulled out the book he'd been reading on Friday when she collected it from him.

He smiled a bit. "Thank you," he whispered.

She smiled in return, placing the book on the table by his bed and leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Don't mention it at all."