His fever dropped, increased.
Madly, he shuffled through the past, catching at straws: the face of Lena, his mother's face, his dad's photo, Jeannette ... his brain kept repeating his home phone number: 964-1904. Friends were rowing on Lake Cayuga ... it was late afternoon but the crew launched their shell ... the coxswain was sore as a boil as the crew made the water foam ... a lone heron winged over the inlet ... he was climbing a waterfall of ice at Watkins Glen ... it was February ... now it was Easter and he was playing tennis ... no ... no, I'll never play tennis again ...
Desperately, he tried to move to relieve the pains in his back: the smell of his own bandages and medication gagged him: he fought to breathe, to swear at Landel ... he wanted to kill him ...
"It's your fault, damn you! You ordered us to advance across that bridge ... your fault ... your fault..."
Yes, there had been heavy fog at the bridge, sticky fog, clinging to the periscope, the visors ... pain ...
Sister Blanche heard him talking, whispering, swearing when she came on duty. At one a.m. the power came on: they removed his arm: two surgeons, four nurses--and Blanche.
By seven o'clock that night they had brought him around, through injections, plasma, medication, renewed dressings, ice packs, kindness. To encourage him, Sister Blanche told him she had telegraphed Jeannette ... his brain latched onto Jean ... Jean ... Ermenonville ... he knew that Blanche was on the right track.
To comfort him, Blanche sat by him and told him stories about her nephews and days in Brittany, days on the beach, days at sea, sailing, fishing: her voice became a singsong: he hardly listened and yet he assimilated thoughts, flecks in her life. She watched over Dennison for eighteen hours without much relief: she supervised transfusions, bed changes, dressings, medication, dope, liquids: stretched out on a cot by his bed she caught catnaps.
A gentle rain woke her, just after dawn, the drops signalling at the window: Blanche called it "our rain:" in her world rain was something angelic: it had always been that way since childhood, since those springtimes along the sea: it was forever promising: and this morning, standing by Dennison's bed, while he slept, it seemed to her that this shower was also promising.
In an upstairs office, the rain patterned Dr. Phelan's windows as he sat at his desk, tired, thoughtful: he was hungry and thought of phoning for coffee and rolls and goat cheese (his favorite): he thought of Orville and others: he jotted down the day's routine for Dennison and then picked up a phone.