Roy sat on the hospital bed holding a bottle of water. In the light of day, Roy looked like he’d been dragged by a tractor trailer, the road rash covering his face, his arm, a torn swatch in his leg. No wonder the woman who’d picked them up at oh-dark-hundred this morning had taken one look at Roy and driven them to the hospital.

York supposed he didn’t look much better, his jeans torn, his shirt bloody, part Roy’s part his from one of his stab wounds reopening in his back. By the time the woman picked them up—and he had to give her credit for guts because really, they looked like a couple thugs collapsed by the side of the road—he couldn’t walk a step further.

He’d slept, his head bumping against the window of her tiny, ancient Opel Corsica, his feet against his chest in the back seat while Roy held his arm to his chest and tried not to groan in the front.

York figured they’d put a good ten, maybe fifteen kilometers between them and the mess on the highway, but the woman had to be wondering. Thankfully, he didn’t speak Italian, and Roy only answered in grunts.

She practically pushed them out of the car as they pulled up to the San Paolo Hospital in Civitavecchia. He’d helped Roy in, set him in the chairs and the nurses immediately ushered them to beds in the ER.

He’d curled up and fell asleep, uncaring at his unwashed, untended state. Hadn’t woken until the doctor came in and started messing with Roy’s arm.

Apparently, his collarbone was broken. Which, of course, York could have told them—one look at the lump in his shoulder, and he knew.

The docs took Roy away for x-rays and York dropped off again, despite the buzz in his head that maybe he should keep an eye open. He woke again to the prodding of a young, female intern who was checking on his wounds.

“You tore a couple stitches,” she said, her accent thick. She was pretty—dark skin, short hair, hazel eyes. More, however, she had gentle hands as she shot him with anesthetic and put in a couple stitches.

“How’d this happen?” she asked as she finished up.

“Car accident. On our way up the coast.” Not a lie.

“Terrible. Your friend is pretty banged up.”

“He’ll be okay,” York said and sure enough, when Roy returned, they’d splinted his arm, no surgery, and added salve to his face, his arm and leg.

“Say nothing,” Roy said, his mouth a dark line. Roy had no doubt that the gauze on his face would vanish in the hospital receptacle the moment they left.