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not that I know of, anyway.”
    “He told me it wasn’t his. He said it was a friend of his, and she’d got it from a divorce settlement so she wouldn’t care that it got wrecked. But I care.” She takes another quivering breath. Tears slide down her cheeks again.
    Martin watches her but she doesn't look at him. She stares down at James.
    John comes back right then and sets a small black case, some washcloths, a bottle of something clear, and the iPad under his arm on the Mission end table. He sits on the bed, opens the case and pulls out a filled syringe.
    “John?” James blinks heavy-lidded at him. “Am I dreaming?”
    “No. I’m here, James.”
    James looks confused, like a child upon waking from a nightmare. Martin moves closer to the bed. “Martin?” His eyes open wide. “What is this place? What’s happening?”
    “You’re at Paradise, James, at our vineyard in Sonora, in our guestroom.”
    “Do you remember coming here with your friend tonight?” John glances at Kate. She gives James a quick smile as he looks at her.
    “Kate? Shit . What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.” He tries to sit up, starts choking and falls back against the pile of pillows.
    “Relax.” John holds his shoulder to the bed. “You need to be still, flat on your back. You’ve got a broken rib, which is why you’re having trouble breathing, and what looks like a concussion, unless you’re on something. Are you on drugs, James?”
    His black eyes almost twinkle. He half-laughs, thick with irony. “Nope.”
    John nods once, to himself. “Okay. Then we’ve gotta get you over to Muir, get you stabilized. You’re gonna be fine—”
    “No. Can’t go to a hospital.” He stares at Kate. “Must be why I told you to take me here…”
    “I can’t do a CT here. There could be swelling—”
    “I don’t care. No hospitals. Please . You’ll crucify me if you force me into a public position.” He stays on John a minute then fixes his gaze on Martin. “And no one knows I’m here. You get it, Martin? No gossip. No bullshit.”
    “I get it, James. Relax. I won’t tell anyone you’re here.”
    James narrows his eyes on Kate. “You shouldn’t be here. You have to leave.” His gaze stays on her until John lifts the syringe and James catches sight of it. His eyes go wide and he scrambles up but John pins his shoulder against the pine headboard. “No! No meds. You’re not putting me out.” He glares at John, trembling, his huge hands on John’s arm and chest trying to push him off.
    “It’s Fentanyl, James, for the pain.” John releases him and sits back on the bed, needle still in hand. “It’s only a low dos—”
    “I don’t want it.” James slumps back, struggling to breathe again, hand clutching his ribs. “Unless you OD me.” He flashes a sardonic grin, but Martin’s sure he’s not joking.
    John stares at him, shakes his head, drops the syringe on the end table. He glances at Martin, brows furrowed, clearly concerned, which concerns Martin. Then he reaches for his black bag, takes out some bandages and lays them on the bed. He wets a cloth with rubbing alcohol and James recoils on contact as John cleans the bloody gash.
    “Breathe, James.” John commands.
    James releases a wheezing breath and gasps for another.
    “Want to tell us what's going on?” John inquires as he bandages the wound.
    “No.” James retorts, flinching with John's touch.
    “Try and relax. This will just take a minute.” He wraps James’ ribs, guiding him gently forward as he brings the ace bandage around his back.
    “Kill me or be done, John.” Sweat trickles down James' face.
    John’s pause is barely perceptible before he clips the bandage closed and smooths it out against James’ torso. James sinks back into the pillows piled up against the pine headboard. His hair is scattered in his eyes which are half-mast, red-rimmed and surrounded by dark. He looks like the lead in a punk band.
    Martin recalls their