I stowed that idea away to think over later. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at the hospital tomorrow, if you can get off work,” I said. Abruptly, I wanted to be alone more than anything.

“You want me to call Iona?” Matthew asked.

When I said, “No!” he laughed, a choky sort of laugh that made him sound like Tolliver for a moment.

“You don’t mind me saying so, you’re pretty dependent on my son,” Matthew said, chiming in with my thoughts so neatly that I was instantly angry.

“Your son is my lover and my family,” I said. “We’ve been together for years. While you were gone.”

“But you need to be able to function on your own,” Matthew said in the righteous tone of someone who’s had counseling; and because he was trying to sound gentle, I was even angrier. I may not be your garden-variety person, but I am not as fragile as I seem. Or maybe I am, but that wasn’t any of Matthew Lang’s business.

“I don’t believe you have the right to tell me how I ought to live, how I ought to be,” I said. “You have no rights over me. You never did. You never will. I appreciate your help tonight. I’m glad you finally did something for your son, though it took him getting shot for you to do it. You need to go now, because I have to shower.” I used the key card, and the door to the new room swung open. The lights were on, and the room was warm. Our suitcases sat on the floor beside the bed.

Matthew nodded to me and walked away without saying one other word, which was a very good thing. I looked at Tolliver’s suitcase and began to cry, but I made myself go into the bathroom and shed my blood-speckled clothes. I took a very careful bath, mindful of my scores of cuts and nicks. I put on my pajamas.

I called the hospital again, and found Tolliver was still the same. I reminded them again to call me instantly if there was any change. I put the phone on the charger, and lay in bed, and listened for it to ring.

But it didn’t. All night.