As soon as we pass through the door, I see a woman who must be Henry’s girlfriend sitting near the foot of his hospital bed in one of those ugly chairs that fold out into a torturous bed. She’s a nurse, I remember now. Sherry something. Sherry wears pink scrubs and looks to be a few years older than Henry. Dark bags hang beneath her bloodshot eyes. She doesn’t get up when she sees us, nor does she offer any welcome.

As I pass the corner of Henry’s bathroom, I see him at last, and the sight takes my breath away. His neck and face are a swollen collection of contusions, ecchymosis, and hematomas, with only the occasional patch of undamaged flesh showing. A plaster cast encases his left forearm, and his right wrist is purplish-black. Henry’s eyes are only half open, yet he acknowledges our arrival by slightly lifting his right hand from the coverlet.

“Sherry?” I venture.

The woman on the chair nods as though against her will.

“Is it all right if we come in?”

“Come on. He been waiting for you long enough.”

Her eyes stay mostly on Caitlin, giving an examination worthy of a romantic rival. This might be irrational, but I see it all the time during initial meetings between women.

When I’m far enough into the room, I see a catheter bag and another bag for fluids strapped to Henry’s bed. There’s probably a drain tube sewn into the stab wound in his belly. A wave of nausea goes through me.

“How’s he feeling?” I ask.

Sherry rolls her eyes at the absurdity of this question. “How do you think? You know, I knew this would happen. Sooner or later, it had to, with all those stories he was writing.”

Caitlin starts to speak, then wisely thinks better of it.

“I’ve tried to get him to tone them down,” Sherry goes on. “The articles. Things have changed around here, but not that much. Most people have moved on, and the races get along pretty good. But some folks can’t let go of the past. And that’s who put him in here.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.” I move closer to Henry and touch his foot under the covers. “Hey, buddy. It’s Penn. Can you hear me?”

Henry’s eyes blink open and stare at the ceiling, then track slowly over to me. When he tries to speak, what emerges is a sort of guttural ululation, and I wonder if pain meds are contributing to his difficulty.

“What have they got him on, Sherry?”

“Zosyn for infection. Dilaudid for the pain.”

“Wiss I could nalk benner,” Henry groans suddenly. “Lossa ell you. But … I not gon be able work … on stery foh while.” A strained laugh comes through his clenched teeth.

“Is his jaw wired shut?” I whisper to Sherry.