“Where were you hit?” I asked him.

His laugh was muted. “She called you. Rina did.”

I cocked my head. “You’re on a first-name basis with her?”

“Actually not. That’s her doing, not mine.”

“You like her?”

“She’s very attractive.”

“She sounds very nice.”

“She is very nice.” More water. “Where’s the kid?”

“Your son,” I corrected him. “I left him at home with a baby-sitter.”

“That’s nice. I like being alone with you.”

“Your paternal devotion is touching.”

“That’s assuming that I’ve acknowledged paternity.”

I gave a long, suffering sigh. “Will you please take a simple blood test so we can be done with this? Why do you like to torture me? Why do you enjoy torturing yourself?”

His eyes narrowed. “Don’t yell at me. I hurt.”

I stood up and walked over to him. I put my hands on his strong, tight shoulders. “Let me see.”

“You’re not a doctor yet. Leave me alone—”

“Chris—”

“Leave me alone.”

“Please?”

He stood up and held my chin. He brought my face to his and kissed me hard. “No.”

“You’re being stubborn.”

“You look gorgeous, Terry. You always look great—”

“Let me see—”

“Jesus, you’re impossible!”

He attempted to lift up his shirt. When I tried to help, he slapped my hand away. He showed me his wound.

“I’m not taking off the bandage.”

“You should,” I said. “The wound is weeping through the gauze. Do you have any medication or replacement bandages or salves?”

He held out his hand in exasperation, then gave me a bag filled with medical material—tape, bandages, medicines, salves, ointments. I went through the supplies, then wiped down my hands with a new bottle of Betadine. I started to take off the outer layer of adhesive. He winced.

“I’m sorry. Hopefully, it won’t take long.”

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked me.

“Yes.”

His expression was dubious, but he stood still. I peeled back the layers. “Who dressed this? He did a good job.”

“She.”

I laughed. “God, I can’t believe what a sexist I am. Who’s she? Mrs. Decker?”

“Yeah.”

“Does Lieutenant Decker know about this?”

“Nope. Doesn’t know about his wife being here, doesn’t know that I’ve been shot. There’s a lot that Lieutenant Decker doesn’t know.”

“What’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“My plane doesn’t take off for a while.”

He talked to me while I worked. His sentences were terse. I was getting the encapsulated version. Probably the sanitized version as well. Twenty minutes later, I had patched him up. He sat down and took another swipe of booze.

“You shouldn’t drink and take painkillers at the same time,” I told him.

“I gave up cigarettes for you. Leave me alone.”

“I care. It’s not safe.”

“My system’s impervious to drugs. It’s a wonder I’m still alive.”

I took the bottle out of his hands, brushed my fingers over his grizzled face. “I’m glad you are.”

He regarded me, scrutinized me. A long time ago, his penetrating eyes made me nervous. Not anymore. Years of dealing with Chris’s unpredictability had hardened me. I needed him—as my son’s father, as my bank account. Initially, my grandparents had supported my son and me. They are lovely people, and I knew we were a burden. After eighteen months, I assured them that I would be fine and convinced them to move to a retirement community in Florida. Immediately, I was plunged into poverty. For almost two years, I put myself through college while trying to put bread on the table. Debt took on a life of its own. I was drowning, and Chris was watching. As I exhaled my last breath—a heartbeat away from eviction—Chris offered me a life preserver. I took it and haven’t looked back, although someday I’m sure I will. It will not be a sterling moment in my moral history. Still, being his courtesan was better than choosing between quitting med school or suffering through another frigid Chicago winter without decent heat.