Khalil blinked again. “If in three days there is no improvement, they will remove the breathing apparatus.”

Three days. Ted refused to accept it. “The swelling may already be coming down,” he said with more hope than conviction.

“There is often some measurable immediate relief. By itself, it is meaningless.”

“Jesus!” The matter-of-fact presentation of this news made it all the more shocking. Why hadn’t the nurse mentioned this? Need to know. He wasn’t family. He thought of Kenzie’s mother, counting the hours until her daughter woke or never woke again.

“There’s more,” Lester said.

“What?” Ted asked, though he felt that he had heard too much already.

“If she comes out of the coma—” Khalil began.

“When,” Ted said. “Can we stick with the idea of ‘when’ she comes out of the coma?”

Khalil continued as if Ted hadn’t interrupted. “Her mental and physical functions could be affected.”

Memory? Speech? Cognitive? Would she be able to walk? To take care of herself? A wave of despair washed over Ted.

“This is possible,” Khalil went on. “I cannot say how likely. I do not have enough information.” Another golfer was on the green and readying his putt. This one wore a lavender polo. Khalil’s eyes were straining toward the screen. “I am sorry about your friend.”

Ted wanted to break something. Or someone. He wanted someone else to hurt as badly as he did. It almost didn’t matter whom. But he would find the people responsible for this. He reined in his rage. “Yes. Thank you, Khalil. I needed to know.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Lester asked.

No. He was not going to be okay. Not until Kenzie came out of the coma, walking, talking, and 100 percent herself in every way. Then he might start on the road to being okay. But for the moment, he was able to function.

“Let’s go sit out on the stairs and let these gentlemen get back to watching their game,” Ted said. “There’re things we need to talk about.”

Lester pulled himself out of the deep couch and followed him outside.

-55-

-55-

“I’m sorry. I thought you had to know.”

There was a produce truck parked in the alley below. The driver and his assistant were off-loading into the back of Manny’s store, carrying on a loud conversation in a language that could have been Chinese or Vietnamese. Or Hmong, for all Ted knew. They didn’t appear to be arguing, but the voices were strident. Ted tried tuning them out. It wasn’t easy.

“I should have realized it myself,” Ted said. “I’m not thinking. I’m hoping.” He was also angry—and guilty. He was reacting and not in control.

“Besides people trying to kill you—and me—and that pretty lady ending up in the hospital, and your apartment turned upside down, I can’t imagine why you’re feeling low.”