There was one missing visitor, though, as I’m sure you’ve surmised.

“She’s been by,” my mother said. “Quite a few times, actually. But you’ve always been asleep.”

It was almost understandable, since during that first week, I was asleep most of the time. Even so, it was more than just bad timing. When others came, they waited. They made enough noise to wake me up, or my parents went ahead and woke me up to see them—but Katie wouldn’t let them do that. Not once. It was as if she wanted to see me, but didn’t want me to see her.

I told my parents to tell me the next time she came—but not to wake me until right after she left. When they did, I told them I was taking a trip down the hall. In fact the doctors were encouraging me to as often as I could. And although my parents wanted to come with me, I insisted on going on my own.

“Just down the hall and back. No biggie.”

I found Katie just where I thought I would. She was in Layton’s room. While the hospital had transferred me to a step-down unit the day before, Layton was still in intensive care, and would likely be there for quite some time.

When I wheeled myself in, and Katie turned, she wasn’t all that surprised to see me. Her eyes immediately went to the bandaged stump where the lower half of my left leg had been. Everyone who has visited me had done that. It was one of those things you couldn’t help. But she looked away from it quickly.

“Hi, Ash,” she said. “It’s good to see you up.”

The Edwards had said I had to be willing to make the ultimate sacrifice. I was, but it turns out that the universe didn’t require that. Instead it exacted its price in pounds of flesh. Roughly nine pounds, to be exact. The weight of a leg amputated just below the knee.

“How is he?” I asked.

Katie looked over at Layton, who was in a bed that didn’t look like a bed. It looked more like a human-shaped cookie cutter. His arms and legs were spread and held in place by foam wedges. And his head was kept immobile by a tight-fitting contraption that looked like it came off a roller coaster seat.

“Stable,” Katie said. “He wakes up once in a while, but he’s pretty groggy.”

I could see his eyes moving beneath the lids. REM sleep.

“Does he know?” I asked.

“His parents don’t want anyone to tell him until he’s stronger. But he knows. How could he not know?”