“I’ll show you,” she said. “My name’s Cynthia.”

Starrell tasted the saltiness at the corner of his mouth.

“T-Thomas,” he said.

They rode up two floors, and the nurse escorted him through a hallway. She paused outside a room with a closed glass door. Starrell saw a black woman in a blue dress, and two black men wearing ties and jackets. A bearded white man in a white coat was talking to them.

“Your aunt and cousins,” the nurse said. “You want to tell them you’re … ?” She took a step toward the door.

“No,” Starrell said. “Not when they is … they’re talking to the doctor. That’s okay. Maybe I should just look in on Uncle Clarence, if I can.”

“Let’s go see,” Cynthia said.

Down the hall, a uniformed police officer was sitting in a chair outside a room. A nurse came out. Cynthia asked if Dunne could receive a visitor.

“Still unconscious,” the nurse said.

“It’s his nephew,” Cynthia said.

The police officer looked at Starrell, who rubbed his eyes and tried to ignore the stare. Just be like one of those Chevy Chase oreos, he told himself. They don’t fuckin’ freak when a cop checks them out.

“For a minute,” the nurse said.

Cynthia opened the door. The officer held up his hand. “Wait a sec.”

Starrell felt a tremor in his legs. He looked for the nearest exit. His muscles tightened; he was ready to sprint those thirty yards, ready to start pumping … in a moment.

Chill, he said to himself. Chill, chill, chill.

“Need to check his bag,” the policeman said.

“No problem … sir,” Starrell said. He swung the backpack off his shoulder, opened it, and held it out for the policeman. The officer pawed through it, saying the contents aloud: “letters, papers, brochures, more papers, more papers.” This could be fuckin’ it, Starrell said silently. He looks at this shit. Fuckin’ didn’t think of this.

Starrell breathed through his nose. Chill, man, he repeated to himself.

“Okay,” the policeman said.

Cynthia and Starrell entered the room.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” she said. She smiled at him and closed the door.

Dunne was connected to various machines. A tube ran from the bandages on his neck. A catheter was stuck into his arm. An assortment of electronic devices were at one side of the bed. His skin color was yellowish, his eyes closed.

Starrell approached Dunne slowly. The air smelled funny, he thought. He felt a nervous sweat pouring out of his body.

“Mr. Dunne,” he said.

Shit, he thought, what if the guard could hear?

“Clarence?” he said. “Uncle Clarence?”

Dunne didn’t move. Starrell sat down in a chair. He leaned over Dunne and placed his mouth near Dunne’s ear. He could hear the hiss of oxygen flowing through a tube.

“It’s me. It’s me, Starrell. Twayne.”

He pulled back and looked at Dunne. Nothing.