“What the hell are you doing?” I asked. I would have pulled my feet away from him if the pain wouldn’t have killed me.

“Don’t smell any booze.” He smiled at me. “I think your monitor was spared.”

I laughed. “You’re crazy,” I said. It was a lucky miracle that nothing had spilled on the monitor during the melee. I had an appointment with Rebecca in the morning and didn’t know how I’d explain myself if the monitor had gone off.

We were quiet for a moment and I realized I was shivering, though I didn’t feel the least bit cold. “I hate this place,” I said.

“I doubt there’s anyone who actually likes it,” he said. “I’ve spent too much time in emergency rooms myself.”

“When did you need the ER?” I’d get him talking about his own experience and skip right over mine.

“I’ve never needed one for myself, but Nathan was another matter,” he said. “Asthma attacks as a little kid, too many times to count. When he was two he ate a bunch of glass beads Stephanie was using to make a necklace. At four, he fell trying to climb over a fence. At six, he was scratched by a neighbor’s cat and the scratch got infected. When he was eight, he broke his arm playing soccer, and when he was ten he got whacked in the head by a softball.”

I watched his face as he spoke. The way his eyes lit up. The way the corners of his lips lifted into a half smile. “You sparkle when you talk about Nathan,” I said.

“I sparkle?” He laughed. His cheeks grew even pinker than usual.

“You do.” I smiled in spite of my painful ankle.

“Well, I guess that’s not surprising, since he means everything to me.” His voice was thick. I knew how much he wished he could have more time with his son. I touched his shoulder. “Such a good father,” I said quietly, and his smile turned a little sad. “Every two years,” I added.

He frowned at me. “Every two years?” he asked.

“Nathan’s been in the ER every two years.”

He stared at me. “I honestly hadn’t thought of that,” he said, then groaned. “And he’s only a few months into twelve. I guess I should expect the call any day now.”

“Hope not.” I smiled.

“So how about you?” he asked. “What’s your ER history?”

“Well,” I said slowly, remembering. “Just twice. When I was nine, I broke my arm. I fell on a neighbor’s brick steps. The neighbor took me home—I was screaming and crying. My mother was three sheets to the wind and she said, ‘Oh, she’s okay. She’ll be fine.’ And the neighbor said I should be taken to the ER and my mother said she could take me if she was so worried about me.”