It was Rhea’s first time in a hospital as far back as she could remember. She waited because she assumed she wasn’t allowed to leave, because someone had to be there when Typhus woke up, someone had to tell her something. (And this had been the only name Rhea could give the hospital at the time, Typhus, she didn’t know anything else, she had not thought to open the backpack at her feet and look for the wallet.) But even with the fake name and Rhea’s tripped-up recollection of events, her half lies, they’d taken Typhus away and they’d intubated her, and when they asked about the blood on Rhea herself, she said it was because when Typhus started convulsing she’d accidentally hit her in the face and caused her nose to bleed, and had scratched her up pretty bad; Rhea said she didn’t need it looked at, she thanked them—she didn’t know how these kinds of services were exchanged, what she needed to provide in order to receive them. Later, a nurse had seen her arm by accident and insisted, and they’d wiped it with an antiseptic and given her stitches and bandaged her up and now she was rooted here, additionally in debt. She nursed the bruise on her ribs, where the girl had hit her with the bat; the staff hadn’t uncovered that yet. She figured at some point they would come for her, hospital security or the police or whoever, she would have to pay for this. The car she and Typhus had arrived in—Typhus’s sister’s Lexus—sat unattended in front of the emergency room, blood all over the seats, and this, too, she worried she would have to answer for. All of it.