“Sssaaa…” The rest comes out like a long nnn, and I hear her inside the sound. N is for noble. N is for night song. N is for north star. N is for the nick of time.

“Sorry, I don’t hear well out of this ear. Go again?”

His smirk implies he knows exactly how desperately I need the answer, but there’s no recognition of what, exactly, I’m asking.

N is for nothing. What I have without her.

N is for never—when I’ll see her again if I don’t get my shit together and think.

The strategic part of my mind wants me to shut up. Don’t say her name. The rest of me picks up the bludgeon of love and uses it to beat the strategist to death.

“Hm,” is all he says. I have no idea what he means by that.

I swallow and try again, only to make the same strained sounds. The full force of my panic isn’t enough to push her name from my heart, through my throat, and into the world.

“We don’t have any of that.” He sits next to me again, relaxed, legs crossed, and one arm slung over the back of the chair. The itching spreads to my neck. It’s torture. “Whatever it is. What we do have—let me tell you—is time. Lots of it. Was it you who killed Peter Colonia? These apes brought him in here with his guts trailing on the floor like a bag of dead snakes. I could have put that mess back together, but you got his heart. Nicked it just enough. The strength it must have taken to pull the knife up like that.” He pats my shoulder to commend me for a job well done. “Well, I’m just a humble trauma guy. I’m no heart surgeon. All I could do was keep him alive long enough to notice his son was nowhere to be found. Called Massimo a worthless pussy and that wasn’t even the strongest term. His own son. Imagine.” He pauses to let me imagine giving a shit. I can’t. “Then… last breaths… he put Sergio Agosti—who’s not even one of us, really—he put him in charge. So, the great thing… for us? You and me?” He leans his elbows on the bed to whisper close, points at me, then back at him. “None of them have time for you right now. It’s just Dario Lucari and me, in a room.” He glances at the IV tower above me. “Morphine’s out. You should have a nice case of the itchies by now.”

Casually, he scratches my nose. It’s the nicest thing anyone has done for me. Then he reaches down to my right side.

I can’t see what he’s doing. Playfully poking? Gently prodding? All I know is the pain is like a vise crushing the bone. It travels up my spine and lights my brain on fire. I can’t even scream.

He pulls back and puts his hand under his chin, staring at me like an artist before his masterpiece.