Then a middle-aged WASP, with dark hair, slightly balding, strode in the room. The photo ID on his chest read "Dr. M. Summers."
"So, how's the patient?" he enquired cheerily, ignoring me as he immediately began checking the chart at the foot of Lou's bed.
"Felt better," Lou said, not being taken in by his pro forma cheer.
"Well, we're going to make sure you get a good night's rest." Dr. Summers finished with the chart and started taking his pulse. "What's left of it."
"How long am I going to be in here, Doc?" Lou asked, flinching as the nurses removed the IV stuck in his arm.
"A couple of days. For observation. To make sure there're no complications." He smiled again. "You're a lucky man, Mr. . . . Crenshaw. Just a superficial cut. But we don't want you out playing handball for a few days." He turned and gave me a conspiratorial wink, then glanced back. "Okay, up we go."
"Can I come with him?" I asked, not optimistic but hoping.
The doctor looked genuinely contrite. "I'm really sorry, but he's going to be fine and visiting hours are long past. You can call in the morning. And you can come up anytime after two P.M. tomorrow. Let's let him get some rest now."
I walked around and took Lou's hand, hot and fevered, feeling so agitated.
"Don't think about anything tonight, okay? Worrying won't help. Just get some sleep. I'm going to find her, I promise you."