One of the women took a half step forward, a reluctant volunteer. Her eyes were huge, and her chin wobbled a little. “She just woke up a few minutes ago, far as we know, right while you was in there. Till then, she was in a coma. That’s why Dr. Bilbin called you all.”

I put a hand to my heart; it was pounding so hard it made my head swim, and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I must have looked pretty bad, because the prehistoric security guard shuffled over, took my arm and steered me to one of the plastic chairs along the hallway wall.

“Lillian was comatose?” I swayed from the effort of speaking.

“Drink this water,” ordered the ancient one, shoving a flimsy cone-shaped paper cup under my nose.

I grabbed it so hard that the contents spilled over my hand, splashed onto the floor.

“Oh, dear,” said the rent-a-cop. He looked so upset that I was afraid he’d end up as a patient at Sunset Villa, instead of an employee.

“It’s okay,” I told him.

He sank into the chair next to mine, breathing audibly.

“Now look what you’ve done,” one of the nurse’s aides scolded. “Fred, are you all right? Rotika, get me some smelling salts.”

Rotika hurried off, returned with a small bottle, unscrewed the lid and waved it under the old man’s nose. The stuff was so strong that it revived me, as well as the intended victim, and after a shared whiff, both Fred and I were good to go.

Greer meandered out of Lillian’s room, looking dazed and, to be frank, slightly peculiar. “She’s going to be all right,” she murmured. “Lillian is going to be all right.”

“You need to go home now, the lot of you,” Rotika said. She’d put the cap back on the stink bottle, but traces of genie b.o. still lingered. “You come see Mrs. Travers in the morning. She got to rest now.”

I must have looked rebellious as I came to my feet, and Greer was still smiling that odd, befuddled smile. Jolie took each of us by the arm and said, “Rotika’s right. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“I don’t want to leave,” I said.

“Too bad,” Jolie replied, marching Greer and me down the corridor, past the reception desk and out into the warm Phoenix night. “You’re not driving,” she told Greer, and hustled her into the back seat of the Pathfinder. Jolie’s gaze swung to me. “Get in, Mojo.”

“But, Lillian—”

“Get in,” Jolie repeated.

I glared at her.

She glared at me.

A person has to choose her battles in this life. I got into the passenger seat, though I did slam the door.

“My car,” Greer said, from the back. And then she burst into tears.