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awoke slowly, to the sound of voices. It seemed to him that he spent all his time awakening, these days, although he could never quite recall the circumstances of going to sleep. Bright striped sunshine was entering the room through the Venetian blind, and he was hungry. A subdued conversation was being conducted in the hall outside his room; by listening attentively he could distinguish the words clearly.
    “The Decker girl?” This was a man’s voice, oddly familiar. For a moment Young could think of only one man around here whose voice he might recognize — a man who was dead — and his breathing stopped and the little hairs rose along the nape of his neck. Then he realized that this was just the doctor, whose voice he had heard in the hospital the previous day. “You let her in here?” Dr. Henshaw was demanding incredulously. “Elizabeth, what were you thinking—”
    “Let her!” The girl’s voice was sharp. “The brat almost knocked me down and stepped on me. She was up the stairs before I could do a thing to stop her.”
    “But—”
    “Honey, I was ready to die! But he came through for us, he really did. He called her Bunny like he’d known her all his life, and thanked her kindly for the flowers she’d sent to the hospital. You should have seen her face: I declare, she turned positively green! She could have scratched my eyes out! She thought he was Larry, of course; and I reckon it looked to her like I’d managed to make up with him somehow and turn him against her. She stamped out of here and slammed the door so hard I thought the house was going to fall down.”
    There was a brief silence. Then the doctor’s voice said reluctantly, “Well, I suppose that’s all right, then, and no harm done. In fact, having her see him and talk to him is the best possible thing that could have happened, since it worked. If she’s convinced, certainly nobody else is going to have any suspicions.”
    The conversation moved away down the hall. Presently the doctor returned alone and entered the room. Hearing him approaching the bed, Young stirred, and for the second time that day went through his impersonation of a man waking up.
    The doctor set his bag on the bedside table and looked down at his patient. “I am sorry to have to disturb you, Mr. Young,” he said. “But this was my only free time today; and I thought I’d better take the opportunity to check how you were getting along. How do you feel this afternoon?”
    “Fine,” Young said, rather thickly. His face felt stiff and awkward beneath the bandages. “Hungry.”
    “Mrs. Wilson’s down in the kitchen getting you something to eat.” Dr. Henshaw was shaking down his thermometer and did not glance aside. “She says you had a bit of excitement here this morning.”
    Young whispered, “Well, a little redheaded kid came barging in, all worked up about something, if you call that exciting.”
    “Um,” the doctor said, regarding the instrument in his hand skeptically. “I understand you handled the situation quite well.”
    “I’m glad you approve, Doc.”
    “Very few medical men like to be called Doc, Mr. Young.”
    “Sorry,” Young whispered.
    “I don’t want to seem unduly suspicious,” the older man said, frowning at the thermometer. “Naturally, we’re grateful that you didn’t give us away. But I’m curious about your motives, Mr. Young. Why did you let the young lady believe you were Larry Wilson? Come to that, why didn’t you declare your identity at the hospital?”
    Young moved his shoulders briefly. “In the hospital, I didn’t have much of a chance before you snatched me out of there. Most of the time I was out cold. I did try to talk to the nurse, but she just shushed me like they do.”
    “And this morning?”
    “Well,” Young whispered, “let’s say it just didn’t seem like the right time to upset the applecart.”
    The doctor turned toward the bed. His voice held no particular expression. He might have been