"Downstairs. I'm sleeping there."
"Thank God!" He closed his eyes, his color ebbing. "This plaster cast," he apologized, "is like a suit of armor. It bothers me."
"Poor fellow! … Can you eat?"
"Not—yet… Who's cooking?"
"Sometimes Don; sometimes I—unless the doctor sends me here. Once—Kenny."
Brian smiled.
"You are very good," he said simply.