“Results of a concussion.” He was using a penlight to stare into James’s eyes. “Should clear up in a few days.”

“Should?”

“Could be longer. Might come all of a sudden, seemingly out of nowhere, but more likely in bits and pieces as something you see or hear creates a connection. As time passes, as your brain heals, hopefully you’ll piece it all together.” He shone his light in the other eye.

“Hopefully?”

“No one can be certain.”

“How comforting.”

The barest hint of a smile at the sarcasm. “Give it time.”

“What choice do I have?” James grumbled.

The doc didn’t react, nor answer, but explained that not only did James have the concussion, but he had suffered three cracked ribs and torn ligaments in his right shoulder, along with some abrasions and contusions.

“You’re lucky,” the doctor concluded.

“Lucky?”

“Could’ve been much worse.”

“How?”

“Well, the blow to your head could have killed you.”

“I was hit?”

“You fell.”

“I fell?” he said, thinking of all the damage.

“Or were pushed,” Nurse Rictor said as she returned, sweeping around the doc to insert something in his IV as Monroe examined his shoulder.

“Pushed?” James repeated.

Monroe lifted James’s right arm, rotating it slightly, and James felt the color drain from his face as he sucked in his breath. “Bad?” Monroe asked.

“I’ll live.”

“Good.” Monroe returned James’s arm to its sling. “Bruised and lacerated shoulder,” he explained. “Nothing broken. As I said, ‘lucky.’ ”

James snorted his disbelief, then said, “So back to what happened—?”

Before the nurse could answer, the doctor said, “The police want to talk to you about that. We were instructed to not answer your questions.”

“What? Why not?” James asked and, despite a warning glance, Nurse Rictor responded, “Because of the investigation.”

“What investigation?” This was beginning to sound ominous.

“You’ll have to ask them. They want to speak to you.”

“Great.” James couldn’t remember all that much, at least not concerning recent events, but he knew he had an instinctive aversion to the cops.

“How did I even get here?” James asked.

“Some kind of fight or altercation,” the nurse said. When she received the hard look from Monroe, she added, “He has the right to know.”

“Fight?” James repeated. God, he thought he was long over bar fights and the like, had years before learned to contain his mercurial temper.

“Domestic dispute,” she offered.

She had to be kidding. “With whom?”

“We don’t know that,” Monroe interjected, and the nurse rolled her eyes, obviously as tired of the red tape as James was.

“That’s what we heard from the police,” said Rictor. Still ignoring the doctor’s grim expression, she barreled on. “It happened at your house. Nine-one-one was called, and the paramedics found you there. You had fallen or were pushed and hit your head against the corner of a hearth.”