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occurred to him belatedly, after the nurse had left, that he could have called them at the con. That he should have called them at the con.
    His head ached.
    When the doctor did turn up, some thirty or so minutes later, Al told him as much; the doctor pulled back his lower eyelids and peered into his eyes with a small flashlight.
    “You don’t have concussion,” he said, “but you’re pretty out of it, anyway…”
    “I should go home,” Al said. “Where’s my clothes? Where’s my car keys?”
    The doctor looked him oddly. “Your car’s pretty smashed,” he said, “they towed that. Besides, I wouldn’t be happy with you driving anywhere right now. I’d actually prefer it if you stayed…”
    “I have to get home,” Al said. And then blinked. “Towed?”
    “Yes. The other guy was pretty totaled too. You smashed together pretty good. You’re both lucky it all ended up with just a few non–life–threatening broken bones.”
    “Wait – towed? Towed where? Were the posters still in there?”
    “The posters?” the doctor said, looking at Al strangely, obviously reconsidering his options with this patient.
    “I was on my way to… which company? How do I get hold of…?”
    The doctor consulted a chart, and then looked up again. “Mr Coe,” he said, “wherever it was that you were going, you aren’t exactly in any shape to go there right now. I am quite serious about – ”
    But Al was seeing Andie Mae’s furious face, burning blue eyes. “But I promised I would get the posters there tonight,” he murmured.
    “Well,” the doctor said, “you won’t. The number of the towing company’s probably on the card you had in your wallet. You can deal with them in good time. Right now, it’s my job to make sure you’re comfortable and you won’t come to any additional harm. Now. Is there anyone we can call to pick you up and keep an eye on you?”
    “The California Resort,” Al said.
    “What?”
    “The California Resort. That’s where I need to go.”
    “Are you staying there? You aren’t local?” The doctor consulted his chart again. “I thought I saw an address…”
    “Everybody is over there. Nobody home right now.”
    “Oh,” the doctor said, uncomprehendingly, staring at Al with a slight frown.
    “You want someone to keep an eye on me?” Al said, quite lucidly. “Well, all my friends are there right now. At the convention. Where I was supposed to be – with the posters. What time is it?”
    The doctor consulted his watch. “Almost seven thirty.”
    “Call me a cab,” Al said. “I’ll go there and I’ll…”
    “To a convention?” The doctor looked skeptically at the arm cradled in a sling and a collection of small cuts and darkening bruises elsewhere on the patient’s body. “I really think you’re in no shape to – ”
    “Just do it,” Al said. “And please find me my stuff.”
    The doctor’s brows drew together at that distinctly less–than–deferential tone, and then he shrugged. “As you wish. You’re leaving on your own recognizance, though, and against medical advice and I’ll put that on the record. I’ll send someone to help you dress – your clothes are over there on the table, in the bag, some of them are a little messed up but I guess we can’t help that. I’ll send a small bottle of Vicodin home with you, and it would really be good if you could look in on a doctor at some point during the next 48 hours or so. Just to make sure.”
    “Fine,” Al muttered.
    All of him hurt, as though he had been worked over by a professional boxer. His chest felt vaguely caved in, and he seemed to be having difficulty with the simple act of inhaling a lungful of air –but nothing major seemed to be broken, other than the damaged arm, and he could cope with the rest of it. Because movement was limited with one arm in a sling and because every small movement made him wince it took some little while before he could, with assistance, struggle halfway into a set