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doesn't drop below ninety-nine five before seventeen hundred. What's his white blood cell count?"
    "Fifteen five. There's some thrombocytopenia and his iron's down."
    "Well, he's fighting it. Hey, those theta waves are awfully sharp. What's the fentanyl/midazolam drip? That high?"
    "You can't leave him on it for days and not expect some tolerance increase."
    "Well, we can't have him waking up, either. Bump it. Hopefully we can take him off it in a couple of days."
    "Okay, I'm increasing it to three hundred."
    "You see any sign of beta formation, you hit him with more fentanyl."
    "Well, okay, but we could lose him to drug interactions."
    "You've got a crash cart. We're taking that risk. You have a problem, take it up with her."
    The man cleared his throat, but didn't say anything, or if he did, the TV must've been turned off first.
     
    He hurt.
    His back hurt, his head hurt, his neck hurt. His lips were cracked, and his sinuses burned, and he was hungry. Ravenous.
    What on earth did I do last night?
    He remembered going to dinner with Millie, then pastries in the village, and then he was supposed to meet— Christ. Brian!
    Images flooded back.
    Glass flying over a streetlight-lit sidewalk mixed with rain. A dizzying view of an upside down street. Brian, lying on his side in a sidewalk puddle, asking him to tell his wife something. Then the bullets and the bleeding-eyed waitress from the coffee shop shooting Brian in the face.
    Brian's blood spraying onto his face.
    Davy's eyes ripped open. That was the only word for it—the eyelids were stuck together. The room was dark gray and the lighting was indirect, putting puddles of light on the ceiling that hurt his eyes.
    The blanket and sheet were pulled up to his neck and his head was propped slightly up, as if he were on multiple pillows or one very thick one. He tried to lift his hand to push the covers down but his hand seemed stuck. He tried the other one and though there was a bit of motion, he couldn't pull it up either. He tried to sit up and fell back, pain shooting from his shoulders.
    Am I that weak?
    "I shouldn't try and move just yet." The voice was digitally distorted, a cross between 2001's Hal and a washing machine on spin. It came from a speaker over the mirror on the wall to his right.
    Mirror? Probably not, thought Davy. They're watching.
    "Who—" Davy's voice was the barest husk and the word was completely unintelligible. He tried to clear his throat and winced. It was incredibly raw.
    "Best not to try speaking, either," the voice said. "Not just yet."
    The door opposite the foot of his bed opened. It was brighter lit in the hall, a painful glimpse of a wall painted white on its upper half, wood-paneled below, and then it was occulted. When he opened his eyes again, the door was shut again and there was someone standing in the room with him.
    He blinked again, trying to get the afterimage of the doorway out of his eyes. He was having trouble focusing. "Drink up for Mummy," said the distorted voice.
    The figure guided a straw to his lips.
    It was ice water and Davy suddenly realized that he was parched, like a man lost in the desert. He sucked greedily and then broke into a spasm of coughing as some of it went down his windpipe.
    The figure backed away and Davy's eyes finally focused. It—he—was a large man wearing blue scrubs complete with a cap, paper surgical mask, and latex gloves. His eyes looked concerned as he watched Davy cough.
    Davy coughed a little longer than actually necessary, using the time to look for identifying marks. The man had bushy brown eyebrows. There was a faint reflection from his eye, the edge of a contact, and his ears were flat to his skull with large attached lobes.
    Davy stopped coughing and licked his lips. Another shock. His face, normally clean shaven, had a quarter inch of beard. How long?
    "More, please." His voice was a bare husk but at least this time the words were discernable.
    The man cleared his throat, as if to say