The woman at the desk made me wait while she did mysterious and very slow things with a computer, answered the phone, and talked with two of the nurses who were leaning nearby. The air of barely controlled panic that everyone had shown in the ICU was completely gone now, replaced by an apparently obsessive interest in phone calls and fingernails. But finally the woman admitted that there was a slim possibility of finding Deborah in room 235, which was on the second floor. That made so much sense I actually thanked her, and trudged off to find the room.

It was indeed on the second floor, and right next to room 233, so with a feeling that all was right with the world I stepped in to see Deborah propped up in bed, with Chutsky on the far side of the bed in virtually the same position he had held in the ICU. There was still an impressive array of machinery surrounding Deborah, and the tubes still went in and out, but as I entered the room she opened one eye and looked at me, managing a modest half-smile for my benefit.

“Alive alive oh” I said, thinking that quaint good cheer was called for. I pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat.

“Dex” she said in a soft and hoarse voice. She tried to smile again, but it was even worse than the first attempt, and she gave up and closed her eyes, seeming somehow to be receding into the snowy distance of the pillows.

“She's not too strong here yet” Chutsky said.

I guessed that” I said.

“So, uh, don't get her tired, or anything” he said. “The doctor said.”

I don't know if Chutsky thought I was going to suggest a game of volleyball, but I nodded and just patted Deborah's hand. “It's nice to have you back, sis” I said. “You had us worried.” I feel” she said in a feeble husky voice. But she did not tell us what she felt; instead, she closed her eyes again and parted her lips for a ragged breath, and Chutsky leaned forward and put a small chip of ice between her lips.

“Here” he said. “Don't try to talk yet.” Debs swallowed the ice, but frowned at Chutsky anyway. “I'm okay” she said, which was certainly a bit of an exaggeration. The ice seemed to help a little and when she spoke again her voice did not sound quite so much like a rat tail file on an old door knob. “Dexter” she said, and the sound of it was unnaturally loud, as if she was shouting in church. She shook her head slightly and, to my great amazement, I saw a tear roll out of the corner of her eye —something I had not seen from her since she was twelve. It slid across her cheek and down onto the pillow where it disappeared.