“I’m sure he thought of everything,” Marjorie responded distractedly. She had to set Sam straight. She wasn’t a helpless clinging vine, although he had good reason to believe she was. The memory of how she’d pleaded with him not to leave her was a keen source of her present chagrin.

Triumphantly, Lydia held up Marjorie’s key chain. “I’ll run over to your place and get your things now.”

Marjorie could do little more than nod. Her thoughts were light-years away, spinning out of control. She would talk to Sam the next time he stopped in to see her. She would explain everything. Yawning, she placed her hand over her mouth and determinedly tried to suppress the exhaustion that gripped her. How strange it felt to become so weary so easily. Of their own accord, her eyes drifted closed.

—

Sam was there when she woke. He smiled down on her before noting something on her chart. “How’s the patient feeling?”

“I don’t know yet. Give me a minute to sort through the various pains.” To her surprise she noticed that her purple velvet housecoat was neatly folded across the bottom of her bed. Lydia must have returned with her things, and Marjorie realized she had somehow managed to sleep through her friend’s second visit.

“Dr. Johnson wants you up and walking before dinner.”

The protest that sprang automatically to her lips died a quick death. Sitting up in bed earlier had been difficult enough! Sam had to be out of his mind if he believed she was going to traipse around this room or down these halls, dragging an IV pole with her, and all because some man she barely knew had ordered her to. She, of all people, should know when she was ready to risk life and limb by walking again.

Sam glanced up from his notations, his eyes studying her. “What, no argument?”

“When can I get out of here?”

“Soon, but that’s up to Cal,” he answered noncommittally. “Listen, before you think about leaving the hospital, focus your energy on getting out of bed and moving.”

He sounded so reasonable, so calm and confident, that the brick walls of her rebellion crumbled before she had them completely raised. Marjorie cautiously moved the sheet aside and struggled a little higher against her pillows.

“Careful, Marjorie. Don’t try to move on your own.” Sam closed her chart and hung it at the end of the bed.

“No,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll do it myself.” One foot freed itself from the tangled sheet, and she raised herself up onto one elbow.

Disregarding her words, Sam placed his arm around her shoulders and helped her into an upright position. Flushed and embarrassed by how incredibly weak she was, Marjorie reached for her housecoat, astonished that the simple task of sitting could tire her so much that she was practically panting.