When he woke up, it was dark and Nick was again standing over him, his expression more terror than worry. Bill tried to speak but could not catch his breath long enough to mumble even a few words.

“You’ve been asleep for twelve hours,” Nick said. “I couldn’t wake you up.” He sat at the edge of the bed. “Don’t get mad, but I called an ambulance. It’s on its way.” He touched Bill’s hand. “Your breathing scared me. I didn’t know what else to do.”

By now, he was conscious enough to take stock of his condition, and having assessed it, understood the terror in Nick’s eyes. His body felt brittle and barely clinging to sentience. His breath was a narrow thread of air as if he were submerged in water and breathing through a reed. From the roots of his hair to the tips of his fingers, he burned with fever. He slumped into the bed and closed his eyes as the sound of a siren approached.

He had last seen Dr. Owen in the emergency room where he had intervened at Bill’s request to allow Waldo to see Eddie. Now Owen stood at the foot of his bed, medical chart in hand.

“It wasn’t a flu, Bill, it was pneumonia.”

“But it was the regular kind, right? Not the other kind.”

Owen frowned. “Your chest X-rays are consistent with PCP.”

“Are you one hundred percent sure?”

“Maybe not one hundred percent,” Owen replied, “but there’s not too much room for doubt and you need to prepare yourself.”

“Prepare myself for what?” Bill said angrily. “To die? Is that what you’re saying?”

“For other infections,” Owen replied mildly, “if this is what we think it is.”

“What you think it is. I don’t think it was anything but a bad case of the flu.”

Owen looked sympathetically at him. “Well, whatever it was, you’re well enough to go home and let’s both hope I don’t see you in here again.”

“You won’t. I guarantee you.”