“No. But he bit his tongue during the beating, and some teeth are smashed. They had to stitch the tongue up.”

“Christ.”

Henry moves his eyes until they settle on Caitlin, who has moved up beside me. “You gon haf pick up where I lef off.”

This statement probably sent a blast of endorphins through Caitlin’s body, but she hides her excitement well. Demurring with a shake of her head, she says, “Henry, I’m sure you’ll be able to dictate stories from here. I’ll put one of my reporters at your disposal.”

He closes his eyes, squeezing tears from their inside corners.

“Has anybody read you this morning’s Examiner?” I ask. “Caitlin did a big story on you. You’re a hero, man. The online edition has racked up praise from all over the world. You’ve got comments from India to South Africa.”

Sherry steps up to the bed and wipes Henry’s tears with a tissue.

“This is still your story,” Caitlin says firmly.

His lips move again, but his jaw barely moves. “No. Uppa you now. But thass not why I call you here. I got … sumpin for you.” He motions weakly to Sherry with his right hand. “Give it her.”

“Are you sure?” Sherry asks, her resentment clear.

Henry nods with obvious difficulty.

Reaching into the pocket of her scrub pants, Sherry produces two small keys, which she hands to Caitlin. Caitlin looks at Henry and raises her eyebrows.

“They shole my case files,” he says. “Or bun ’em. Everysing. ’Ose my keys … safe apposit box … woy—urr-ROY-al Cotton Bank.”

Excitement is crackling off Caitlin like static electricity. These are the keys Henry mentioned to Lou Ann Whittington while he lay bleeding on the pavement. “What’s in the safe-deposit boxes?” Caitlin asks.

“Copies,” Henry croaks. “Sranscrip. FBI files … disk. Insern did mos of ih foh me … lass summuh. Took mohhr … moh suff yes’day.”

“My God,” Caitlin breathes. “Henry, are you saying I can use your files?”

The reporter nods again, his forehead covered in sweat. He probably couldn’t verbalize the trauma of giving away the fruits of a decade’s work, even if he wanted to. “You haff oo,” he says at length.

Sherry leans over and wipes his purple skin with a washcloth.

“Be cah-ful,” Henry warns. “Nah lige me. Don bee supid lige me.”

Caitlin walks around the bed, lays her hand lightly on his shoulder, and bends to speak close to his ear. Her words are faint but filled with conviction. “I’m going to do everything in my power to live up to the example you’ve set. You concentrate on getting better. Any time you want to file a story, have Sherry call my cell, and I’ll come myself to take dictation.”

Caitlin continues speaking, but I’m distracted by Sherry, who comes to my side and begins whispering with great passion.