(The door to Sam's cabin opened and closed again.) He would have to talk like an angel or a devil to stop Sam from another try. But Sam was one of his people and he'd got them all into this. His responsibility ... his.
Tim had a sudden guilty feeling he had dozed off when he heard the door open and close for the third time. The doctor must have gone. He came out of the darkroom and re-entered Wyckoff's.
Sam was sitting on the edge of the bunk regarding his bandaged wrist wryly.
"All fixed up?"
"I expect so."
"Was it bad?"
"No. He didn't even have to take stitches—just little tape strips." The wry look became a grimace. "Said I was lucky it didn't get the artery. I can't even cut my wrist the right way."
Tim grinned. If Sam's sense of humor was returning, it might not be such a hard job. "Aren't you supposed to be lying down?"
"I don't think so."