Mrs. Zielinski played Scrabble like a gladiator. There could be only one winner, and that player could be crowned only when everyone else was dead. Ted was down to six unusable tiles when she placed an X in front of an unguarded I and announced that this was a letter in the Greek alphabet. Ted challenged. She told him that it was also the proper title for the fourteenth star in a given constellation. Ted accepted defeat with as much grace as his demolished ego allowed, proud of his sole double-score word—“MALARKEY,” which had linked the M in her “EMPATHY” with the “KEY” he had inserted on his previous turn. When it was over, her score was in the mid six hundreds, while his had barely made it out of double digits.

He checked his watch. Ten till midnight. The nurses were preparing for the shift change. He’d been there since eight, Kenzie’s mother since four. Her father was returning at 4 a.m., and Lester was due at noon. In staggered shifts, they had her covered twenty-four hours a day.

“Not enough time for a rematch,” Ted said.

She laughed, quite pleased with her win. “Not that you want one.”

“No,” he admitted. “I can handle losing, but it’s more difficult when the final result is obvious so early in the game.”

She slid the tiles into the case. “Will you be all right?” She was not referring to his bruised ego.

“Me? You have my word. And I will call if there’s any change. You two need some rest.”

Kenzie was no longer sedated, but the doctors wanted her to awaken on her own. The swelling was down, the emergency over. Now it was a matter of waiting. And hoping.

“Do you have something to read?” Mrs. Zielinski asked. “Can I get you anything before I go?”

Ted had to smile. Being mothered was an unusual sensation and not unpleasant. “I’m fine. There’s a Law & Order marathon that goes until six a.m., and there’s coffee at the nurses’ station.” And a security guard on the floor all night, he thought.

Giving him one last brave smile, Mrs. Z gathered her things and left Ted alone with her daughter.

Kenzie was breathing on her own, and most of the monitors had been removed. The blood pressure machine made sounds periodically as the armband inflated. Greevey and Logan investigated a Wall Street banker. Ted watched until the alert on Kenzie’s saline drip went off. The bag was empty. A moment later a serious-faced nurse bustled in and changed it.

“She’s doing fine. You might want to order her breakfast,” she said, placing a menu on the bed table. “She’ll be hungry.”

Prediction or prognosis? Either way he was encouraged.

Ted looked at the menu. Pancakes or scrambled eggs. Powdered, institutionalized, and barely qualifying as food. Maybe he’d run out and get her a bagel.