Dana sat by her husband on the arm of the couch. Her eyes were veined with red. She offered a paper cup to Luke, encouraging him to drink more Coke.

He pushed the cup away with his arm. “If I drink any more, I’ll throw up.”

“You’re still pale—”

“Of course, I’m still pale. I’m goddamn sick to my stomach. Leave me alone.”

Lids fluttering, Paul’s eyes swept over the scene. He paced, checked his watch for the thousandth time. His wife, Angela, was blond and plump, a floral muu-muu covering her body, doughy arms popping out of the short sleeves. She wore no makeup, her face was haggard.

The minutes crawled along with the fear of the unknown.

Michael regarded Decker. “You should…” His voice cracked. “Your arm…you should take care of it.”

Paul turned his glazed eyes toward Decker, as if looking at him for the first time. No doubt that was the case.

“What happened to your arm?”

“Mom…” Michael cleared his throat. “Mom did it.”

“Oh God!” Paul sank into a chair. “Will this nightmare ever end?”

Pink-eyed, Angela said, “Do you want more water, Paul?”

“Nothing.” He lowered his head between his knees. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

But he remained hunched over, arms wrapped around his head.

Angela kneaded her hands. She had bitten a couple of her nails past the quick, trickles of blood oozing over the fingertips. To Decker, she said, “Is your arm okay?”

“It’ll keep.”

She said, “Mama’s really not an evil person…”

Angela stopped talking, waiting for someone to corroborate her position. When no one rose to Mom’s defense, Decker said, “Somebody should be paying attention to her needs…go down to the jail, talk to her and to her representation. Right now, they’ve assigned someone from the PD’s office. Eventually, you might want to hire your own lawyer.”

Nobody said anything, nobody moved.

Eva’s husband, David, tapped his foot. Dark, Semitic-looking. Sleepy brown eyes, thick black hair, a long face, and a prominent nose. Handsome though, because his features were strong. He was wearing an untucked linen shirt over a pair of old jeans. “You want me to go?”

Nobody answered him. He looked to Decker for help.

“It would be a good idea,” Decker answered.

Eva had curled herself into a ball and pressed herself against the corner of the couch. Maggie was next to her, head on her shoulder, eyes closed, mouth open, snoring slightly.

“Then I should go, Eva?”

Eva glanced at him, looked away. Her eyes held no emotion, dead to the world. “Do whatever you want.”

Paul raised his head, looked at his watch. “You said they brought him here around ten, Michael?”

“About,” Michael answered by rote.

“So it’s been four hours,” Paul said. “Don’t they say the longer the better?”

He had addressed his question to Michael. But the med student didn’t answer.