Part 25

Zander Smith was just staring – he couldn't read or do anything else – his mind was too burdened. He heard someone at the door, looked up and smiled. Joe Quinn came into the room, trailing him was a gangly youth in a baseball cap, wearing it backwards, with a T-shirt and cut-off shorts.

"I giving Tim Connor here a ride home from his medical check-up for football. I thought we wouldn't leave until he said hello to his sister, and while we're here, he and I may as well talk to you if you're up to it."

"Yes. Come in."

"Any improvement?"

"A little."

"Tim drives race cars too. Whenever he can. Don't you Tim?"

"Yeah," Tim said. He looked around the room, a little goofy. He wasn't one for a lot of speaking. He looked like he thought he was supposed to say something. "I like Formula One cars."

"I used to work on those," Zander said, looking distant.

"We should get you working on them again," Joe said.

"If I make it out of here."

"Feels like a long time."

"Yeah."

"You got shot?" Tim asked. "What'd that feel like?"

"It hurt," Zander said.

Quinn came in with a tray. "This is that awful pain medication," she said. "What are you two doing here, harassing my patients?"

"Yeah," Tim said.

"It's easier than your harassment," Zander said.

"Making jokes. That's a good sign."

Tim got up, sneaked up behind Quinn, who was looking down at the tray and arranging things. He suddenly grabbed her waist. She jumped, and knocked a box of tongue depressors onto the floor, shrieking for a second. She stood still, looked heavenward, trying to smile. "This is a hospital," she said to Tim in a mock lecturing tone. Zander smiled, and watched her start to pick up the tongue depressors, and Tim helping her but dropping again as many as he picked up.

"He's a little immature today," Joe said, "I'll get him out of here. Bye, now," he said to Zander. "Bye," Tim said politely. "Thanks for coming," Zander said as they left.

Quinn was still picking things up off of the floor. He watched this procedure. "You missed one," he said, pointing.

"Thank you," she said ruefully.

She looked at the chart like she always did, swinging back her braided hair, which had fallen forward while she picked the stuff up off the floor. Businesslike as usual, she listened to his chest.

"Nothing funny going on?" he asked.

"Not a thing. Maybe you can go for another walk later."

Later, he got across the lounge without the walker, and was feeling pretty good about it. Quinn wasn't in favor of it, not yet, but he felt like he could do it, and wanted to try. He stopped, and held onto the top of a chair, seeing Quinn across the lounge, getting another patient started to try walking with a walker. He was looking at them, and a sort of dizziness overcame him. He closed his eyes for a second, and felt more stable, but then everything went white.

He was back in bed, Dr. Jones and Dr. Monica Quartermaine were standing on either side, staring at him, or so it seemed. He didn't feel like he could talk. "Maybe just a relapse," Dr. Jones was saying, "trying too much too soon." Zander stared at the ceiling, wondering if he would ever get out of there.

Monica was listening to his chest now. Then she unceremoniously grabbed his hospital gown up and looked under the bandages and the healing wounds. "Looks all right for now," she said, "I do not want to have to open him up again without his blasted medical history."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that," he heard Dr. Jones saying as they went out of the room.