Over and over the nurses tell us this as if we didn’t know, couldn’t read their stupid signs.

His parents aren’t here. He isn’t close to them. Has anyone even called them?

It doesn’t matter that we love him. It doesn’t matter that he loves us.

We aren’t relatives.

Andy doesn’t say anything about being worried to have cleaned up James’s blood, which I’m taking as a good sign, but I’m not sure what of.

He goes back on patrol while Becky scrounges for change for the cigarette machine and eventually borrows two quarters and a menthol from the duty nurse.

We head out to the loading dock so I can find some air.

Maybe we can break into his room, she says. If we got in, do you think they’d believe we’re related?

I stare at Becky’s long straight braid, picture my curly hair, and think of James and his blond bangs and his sky-blue eyes and his straight lines, and try to laugh. But it comes out like a strangled cough.

What if it’s bad, Becks? What are we going to do? I ask. I selfishly realize I’m as worried about us as I am about James. It isn’t that I can’t stand the idea of losing anything or anyone else, it’s that James is the person my mind goes to when things are dark. He’s like this comforting light I need to know is out there somewhere. My brain refuses to contemplate how dim my life would be without him.

She takes my hand, and says, Maybe we should go home. I left his mom a message and she won’t be able to reach me so easily here. I jump off the dock and then give her a hand. I don’t want to leave. Home seems too far away. But she’s right.

Becky calls later and tells me James’s mom called her from England and is on her way back. Then she says she talked to Andy’s mom who convinced the duty nurse to promise to let her know when James is going to be released, so there’s nothing to do but wait.

In the meantime, I try to reach my brother.

There’s no answer at the apartment, regardless of when I call.

There’s no answer when I go there and pound on the door.

He isn’t at work, but I leave a note telling him to call me or I’ll throw the entire baseball card collection that Grandpa Bartolomeo left him down the incinerator.

That does the trick.

I miss Gabriel, but it’s more like I miss the possibility of Gabriel. With James, it’s different, tangible. I keep imagining him, pale against the white sheets, alone and scared.

Connor pulls the celery out of his Bloody Mary and pretends to play the drums with it. James will be okay, he says. I mean, you guys are tight. He knows you’re there for him.

I look up at my brother, amazed at his sincerity. Then he says, Hey, wanna hear some good news?