“What can I do? Get Namir?” He and Dustin were playing pool in the lounge.

“Just stay a minute.” She was carefully packing her nostrils with tissue, her head bent over. “Hurts. More than I would think.” She turned and got to one knee and spit blood into the toilet, and convulsed twice, holding back vomit. Then she sat on the floor, holding the scarlet wad of tissue over her nose.

“Moonboy?”

“Yeah. If you see him, would you pitch him out the air lock for me?”

“What happened?”

“We were just talking.” She dropped some tissues into the toilet, and I handed her fresh ones. “Well, we sort of fucked, I guess that’s obvious, and I was talking to him, reassuring him . . . and, I don’t know. I must have blinked. He was starting to sit up, and he whacked me a good one with his elbow. Said it was an accident, but no way. Had all his weight behind it.” She shuddered and rocked a couple of times. Another woman, I would have held, comforted. Elza wouldn’t like that.

“Glad my martial arts instructor isn’t here. She would slap the shit out of me.”

“Was it something you said?”

She looked up at me, ghastly but a little comical. “Yes. But I’m not sure what, exactly. I’ll talk with him after he’s . . . after we’ve both calmed down a little.”

“Maybe you should slap the shit out of him. I mean, just as therapy.”

She nodded. “Therapy for me, anyhow.”

Namir appeared in the doorway, galvanized. As if a silent lightning bolt had struck. “Blood,” he said. “What?”

“An accident,” Elza said, standing carefully. “Stupid accident. Get outa here and let us clean this mess up.”

“It’s broken,” he said. Dustin had come up behind him and was staring.

“No shit, it’s broken. But a doctor has already looked at it.”

“You were with—”

“An accident, Namir. Make yourself useful and get me some ice. And a drink, while you’re at it.” He backed away, and Dustin followed him.

I wet a handcloth with cold water and handed it to her. She dabbed and rubbed at the blood one-handed. The stream had pooled at her navel and gone on to mat her pubic hair. I gave her another cloth and rinsed the first one out.

“What are you going to tell them?”

She scrubbed her pubic hair unself-consciously. “They know I was with him. Namir, at least, knew I was going to raise some . . . delicate matters. For the time being, I’m going to stand behind doctor-patient confidentiality.” She threw the rag into the sink. “Help me get dressed?”

She pulled a brown shift out of a drawer and wriggled into it, switching arms to keep the wad of tissues in place. She went back into the bathroom and spit out a clot and retched.

“Ugh.” She sat heavily on an ottoman, elbows on her knees.