She produced a very wide, very forced smile. “It’s a minor cardiac event, you heard the doctor. No need to get your knickers in a twist, John.”

Harriet walked away with the doctor, but she stopped suddenly and turned back.

“It turns out I don’t want him to die, after all. But I can’t live with him, either. I told him so yesterday, which is why all this happened. Angie, you be sure to let Tony know. This is all my fault, it’s got nothing to do with him.”

“I’ll tell him,” Angie said.

Harriet nodded, and walked away down the corridor.

John asked, “Tony’s okay?”

Angie nodded. “Really, it wasn’t anything. Just some halfhearted punches thrown and a lot of people rolling around on the ground. Tony hit his head when he tried to crawl under the bleachers.”

She sensed that John might have laughed at this image, if it weren’t for what was going on in the examination room at the end of the corridor. Thinking of Tony sneaking off from the Rose mob on all fours did make Angie laugh; she couldn’t help it, except the sound came out as something else, halfway between a hiccup and a sob. John reached out for her hand and then stopped.

“Things could be worse,” Angie said quietly.

“Things are about as bad as they can get.”

Angie’s blood was thrumming loudly in her ears. She felt light-headed and weighed down all at once; she had the idea that her feet wouldn’t obey her if she tried to walk away. If she tried to run away. So they sat side by side for a long time in the empty emergency room, in a silence that seemed to have a physical presence, words buzzing around their heads.

Angie leaned forward and folded her arms across her knees. She studied her feet, the fraying lace on one scuffed white sneaker, the smudge of clay on the other. John had stretched out his legs and so she studied his feet, too, sun-browned and long and strong and sinuous in immaculate Mephisto sandals.

She had been in Ogilvie for weeks, and in that time he had only touched her once, when she had collided with Patty-Cake Walker in his front hall.

His hand settled on her back, the touch light, the heat of his skin coming through the fabric of her shirt in a jolt that ran along her spine. Her throat swelled until it was almost painful, but when she turned her head she saw that he wasn’t looking at her. John had put his head against the wall. She watched him swallow, the muscles convulsing along the arch of his neck, his Adam’s apple riding the wave. His hand rested on her back, warm and firm and still.