“Um, yes. He’d said he was going to be—”

“He’s in the back. I’m Julio. Follow me.”

Relieved, she followed the swaggering Julio past the bar and into the deeper shadows beyond. Conversation began to flow again as soon as she moved away. Once among the rear tables, she made out a form seated against the far wall. As the figure rose, she recognized Jack.

He extended his hand. “Good to see you again, Doctor.”

Alicia’s throat tightened as she thought of seeing that toy room full again yesterday. She clasped his hand between both of hers and held it.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said. “How to even begin to thank you for returning those gifts.”

“No thanks necessary. I was hired to do a job, and I did it.”

Somehow Alicia doubted that. No matter how offhanded his tone, she’d seen his eyes on Friday, and she knew what he’d done to that thief. Did a man simply “hired to do a job” wreak that kind of havoc?

He offered her coffee, which she refused. Julio refilled Jack’s chipped white mug, then left them alone.

“Was everything there?” Jack said, sipping his black coffee.

Again, she noticed his long thumbnails. Maybe she’d ask him later why he didn’t trim them short like the rest.

“As far as we can tell, yes. The staff is simply delirious with joy. They’re calling it a Christmas miracle. So are the papers.”

“I’ve seen them. Good. Then we can consider that matter closed. How’s that little guy with the new haircut, by the way? The one who got sick right after I saw you?”

“Hector?” she said, surprised he remembered. “Hector’s not doing too great.”

“Aw, no. You’re not going to tell me something awful, are you?”

He cares, she thought in wonder. He genuinely cares.

“His latest chest X ray shows pneumonia.”

The lung infiltrates had formed a typical Pneumocystis pattern, and the gram stain had confirmed that as the infecting organism. No big surprise. Pneumocystis carinii loved AIDS patients.

Alicia had started him on IV Bactrim. He was supposed to have been on a prophylactic oral dose, but not all the foster parents were that religious about giving daily medication to seemingly well kids.

“He’s going to be all right?”

“The medication he’s on usually does the trick.”

Usually.

“Anything I can do for him? Send him some balloons or a teddy bear or something?”

How about a mother or a father, or better yet, a new immune system? Alicia thought, but said, “That’d be great. He’s got nothing. I’m sure he’ll love anything.”

“He’s got nothing,” Jack said, shaking his head and looking glum as he stared at his coffee.

When he looked up at her, Alicia knew he was struggling to find words to express the bleakness of the life he was trying to imagine.

Don’t try to express it, she thought. You can’t.

“I know,” she told him.

He nodded. Then he sighed. “Your message said you had a personal matter you wanted to discuss.”