Finally, quietly, I cry for a while. And then I take in a deep breath, oxygenate the three hundred thousand air sacs in my lungs. Does he know that? One of the three bones in the middle ear is no bigger than a grain of rice, how about that? I’ve got so much I could tell him. I look down at Frank, asleep at the side of my bed. Then I look out the window at the black sky, at the stars separated by unimaginable distances. When he took my arm today, I liked that, I liked so much when he took my arm. I make this thought into a shape, and sleep with it.

Chapter 8

Woman, you ’bout as crabby as a politician fresh out of lies,” DeWitt says. “You mean! What’s your problem, you got Monday morning blues?”

I say nothing, finish taping his dressing. I need to stop by the office before I go home, pick up some more tape, more 4 × 4’s too. Saline.

“I didn’t do nothin’, I know that. It ain’t me! He looks at me from under his heavy lids. “You ain’t got a thing to complain about today; I been Sean Connelly.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, DeWitt.”

He takes my wrist, gently. “What’s the matter now, really? Is is something I can help you with?”

His brown eyes are so rich and honest, so open. I mean to say no, thank you; but instead I burst into tears. Frank comes running over, sniffing nervously first at me, then at DeWitt.

“Whoa, call off your bodyguard,” DeWitt says, moving away.

“Like he’d hurt you,” I say. I reach for my nurse’s bag, open up a 4 × 4, blow my nose into it.

DeWitt pats the bed. “Sit down. Tell ole DeWitt all about it.” Seeing the pat, Frank jumps up on the bed and curls himself into a neat ball.

Frank’s not supposed to get on the bed. Frank’s not even supposed to even be here. One of these days I’m going to get into real trouble for all the rules I break.

I stand looking at DeWitt for a while, and then, the hell with it, I sit down, too. It feels so good to be the one taken care of for a change, such a relief. I have a notion to kick off my shoes, lie in the crook of DeWitt’s arm, and ask him to sing me a lullaby, to read me a story that is simple and has a happy ending. Instead, I sit shyly looking down until DeWitt takes one of my hands between his own, and then I start crying again.

“You pillowed, honey?”

I stop crying.

“What?!” he says. “It’s not such a dumb question. I seen plenty of womens act like you and the problem is? … P-R-E-G-N-U-T!”

“I’m not pregnant.”