There was something about hospitals that freaked Mick out, as if death, illness, and pain were lurking around the corner, waiting to pounce. And yet here he was. He stepped through the door of Lois’s room, rounded the corner, and saw her lying there. He stared at his secretary, worry coursing through him. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. It was immediately clear that she would not have the mobility or desire to type, file, or answer phones. Casts encased both of her forearms and wrists; only her fingers were visible. Her leg was in a cast as well, strung up in the air. “How the hell did this happen?”

Lois mumbled something.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Mick’s concentration was thrown off by the fact that an embarrassed rosy hue had bloomed across the face of his elderly, gray-haired secretary. “What did you say?”

Lois lifted her chin. “Hang gliding,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Been feeling in a bit of a rut, so for my sixtieth birthday I decided to try something new.”

“And you thought it would be a good idea to jump off a cliff clutching a glorified kite? Seriously?” It was hard to wrap his mind around the idea. Lois was always so pragmatic, so systematic and unemotional.

“It wasn’t my fault. Everyone said so. The wind changed direction at the last minute. These things happen.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Thanks for the support. You have a lovely bedside manner. Why am I not surprised? Anyway. As you can see”—she held up her cast-clad arms—“I will be out of commission for a while. You’ll need to find someone to take over. Stop glaring at me. I didn’t do this just to inconvenience you.”

“I’m not glaring at you.” He was. He could feel scowl lines digging furrows in his face. Mick plopped the vase of flowers on the wide window ledge, a splash of color that brightened up the beige room. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell we’re supposed to do.”

“I don’t know what you’re going to do, but as you can see, my options are limited. It’s binge-watching The Great British Bake Off and bonbons for me. The doctor says it’s going to be anywhere from eight weeks to six months off the job, depending on how fast I heal, rehab, et cetera.”

“Eight weeks to six months?!”

“Stop bellowing—”

“I’m not bellowing.” He was.

“And heads up, I’m not sure if at the end of rehab I’m going to want to come back.”

“What?”