His handsome face is drawn and tired, and I can tell from the way he lingers in the doorway that I must look bad. He shuffles next to the plastic railing, thrusts a bouquet of flowers into my lap, and then picks them up awkwardly and lays them on the metal side table.

“This is the first day they allowed visitors,” he says, running a hand over his mouth. A fine stubble stipples his chin and outlines the strongness of his jaw. After a brief hesitation, he sits on the cushioned plastic chair next to the bed. His brown eyes are full of concern, but he looks everywhere except my face.

I’m suddenly aware of the bad taste in my mouth, the astringent scent on my skin masking something sharp and feral underneath. I feel vulnerable and uncertain. I want him to leave and I want him to stay.

“Well,” he says, picking distractedly at his pant leg. “I guess you won’t be going undercover anymore.” He offers a tired grin. “It’s too bad, since the nurse tells me you’re suddenly fluent in German.”

It’s a joke. I’ve never gone undercover. But I can’t smile. I can barely speak.

When his face falls, I murmur, “I’m wrapped … in dead skin.” And when he jumps back, I do smile—inwardly.

“Skin … from a cadaver,” I breathe. Words are still a struggle, but I feel like they’re making the right shapes on my lips. “Don’t worry,” I murmur. “It’s only temporary … until they … harvest skin … from my ass.” Again, I want to laugh, but the sound stays in my chest. A heavy wheezing in my throat.

Teddy smiles, but his eyes are still wide, and he’s not looking at me, watching the blinking lines on the vital signs monitor instead.

He clears his throat. “Cindy was beside herself when I got the call. She’ll be relieved you haven’t lost your perverse sense of humor.”

Cindy—right. For a moment I had almost forgotten. I shift away from his gaze. And anyway, I think it’s him who’s relieved.

“How’s—”

“Your house? Still standing. Definitely damaged, but nothing irreparable from what I could tell. Your neighbor—what’s her name, with the red hair and the two boys?”

“Donna,” I say, feeling pinpricks where tears should be. The thought of my house—battered and bruised—makes it more real somehow.

“That’s her. She came running out as soon as she saw me. She’s the one who called it in, and wanted to know how you were doing. She also asked if she should get a guard dog, if there was an arsonist roaming the neighborhood, or if someone had a personal vendetta against you.”

He raises an eyebrow.