On his first try to rise from the bed, Henry got so dizzy that he fell back on the mattress. His mother told him to forget it, but he only redoubled his efforts. The second time, with her help, he managed to get to his feet. The pain took his breath away—worse in his head than in his belly, where the knife had gone in. Probably from the bullet, he realized.

While waiting for his mother, Henry had shaved his mustache, his goatee, his lower legs, and the backs of his hands, thanks to a cup of water and a toiletry kit begged from Irma McKay. From his mother’s handbag he took her extra wig and fitted it over his head. She made a few small adjustments, then lay back on the bed. Finally he donned an old raincoat of his father’s that resembled the coat she’d worn into the hospital. He hated wearing anything that reminded him of that man, but tonight he was willing to bear it. The coat pockets held a pair of sturdy sandals, which he carefully donned by dropping them to the floor and sliding his feet into them.

“You’re not on IV pain meds anymore,” his mother said. “I had some OxyContin left at home from my last surgery, so you’ll have to make do with that. But it’s not the same as Dilaudid or fentanyl.”

“I’ll be all right,” he assured her, his head feeling like a water-filled balloon. “Just as long as I make it past the guard at the side door.”

His mother rose up far enough to put an arm around his waist and gently hug him. “I wish I could help you more. But I know God is watching over you. If he wasn’t, you would have died tonight.”

With great effort, Henry bent and kissed the top of her head. Then he put on her hat, picked up her purse, walked slowly to the door, and gave her their prearranged signal: the “okay” sign.

“You take care of yourself, honey!” his mother called loudly. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Don’t you bother these nurses too much, all right? They need some rest, too.”

“I won’t,” Henry said in a dull voice.