A woman psychiatrist. Maybe it was what she needed. God knows I wasn't her savior.

She made a deep snoring sound, and her eyes moved under swollen lids.

More fragile than I'd thought.

Was her summer as a prostitute the cause or, more likely, a symptom?

I wondered if everything she'd told me was true.

For all I knew, her father was really a truck driver from Bell Gardens, no closer to fame than a subscription to People.

Who'd brought her to the hospital?

Who'd pulled her head out of the oven?

Her eyes opened partially. She tried blinking but couldn't. I moved into her field of vision; at first she didn't focus. Then I saw her pupils dilate. One hand moved, the fingers stretching toward me. Suddenly, they dropped.

I took hold of them. Her mouth shifted, struggling for an expression, finally settling on weariness.

I smiled down at her. She gave a feeble nod. The oxygen tube fell out of her nose, the hiss growing louder as precious gas leaked.

I replaced it. She licked her lips, and her eyes opened completely.

Trying to talk, but all that came out were wordless croaks. Tears in her eyes.

"It's okay, Lucy."

She fell back. Her fingers grew cold and loose.

For the next twenty minutes, she slept as I held her hand. A nurse came in, checked her, and left, closing the door hard. Lucy woke up with a start, systolic pressure jumping.

Panic in her eyes.

"You're okay, Lucy. You're in the emergency room at Woodbridge Hospital, and you're doing fine."

She started coughing and couldn't stop. The oxygen line flew out again. Each spasm lifted her from the mattress, an involuntary calisthenic that tightened her face with pain. She coughed harder and spit up vile-looking gray mucus that I wiped away.

When the coughing stopped, I put the line back.

It took a long time for her to catch her breath.

"What," she said, very softly and hoarsely, "happen?"

"You're in the emergency room. Woodbridge Hospital."

Confusion.

"What's the last thing you remember, Lucy?"

She gave a mystified stare. "Sleeping."

Her face screwed up and her eyes closed. More pain- or shame? Or both?

The eyes opened. "Hurts."

"What does?"

"Head."

She moaned and wept.

I checked the contents of her IV bag: glucose and electrolytes, no analgesic. I pressed the nurse call button. A bark came through a wall speaker. "Yes?"

"Miss Lowell's in pain. Is there anything she can have?"

"Hold on."

Lucy had another coughing fit and spit up. She stared at me as I wiped her lips.

"What… happened?" She started to shiver and her teeth chattered.

I put another blanket over her. She said something I couldn't make out and I bent down to hear her.

"Sick?"

"You've had a rough experience."

"What?"

Tears trickled down her cheeks, flowing under the oxygen line and into her mouth. Fear was twisting her face like taffy.

"Sick?" she repeated.

I took her hand again. "Lucy, they say you tried to commit suicide."

Shock widened her eyes.

"No!" A whisper, more lip movement than sound. "No!"

I gave her fingers a soft squeeze and nodded.

"How?"

"Gas."

"No!"

Behind her, the monitors jumped. Heart rate up, systolic blood pressure rising. The hand in mine was a sodden claw.

"No!"

"It's okay, Lucy."

"No!"

"I believe you," I lied. "Try to relax."

"Didn't!"

"Okay, Lucy."

"No!"

"Okay, just calm down."

She shook her head. The oxygen line shot out of her nose like a slingshotted stone. When I tried to replace it, she turned her head away from me, chest heaving, breathing harshly.

The door opened and the same nurse came in. Young and heavy-faced with chopped hair. "What's going on?"

"She's upset."

"What happened to her line?"

"It came loose. I was just putting it back."

"Well, we'd better get it right back." She took the line from me and tried to insert the nosepiece into Lucy's nostrils.

Lucy turned away from her, too.

The nurse put one hand on her hip and twirled the tube with the other.

"Now you listen to me," she said. "We're busy and we don't have time for fooling around. Do you want us to run tape all the way around your head to keep the line in? It'll have to be really tight, and believe me, your headache will get a lot worse. Do you want that?"

Lucy bit her lip and shook her head.

"So be still, it's for your good. We're just trying to take care of you and fix you all up."

Nod.

The line went back in. "Good girl." The nurse checked the monitors. "Your pulse is up to ninety-eight. Better relax."

No response.

"Okay?"

Nod.

The nurse turned to me. "Are you family?"

"Her therapist."

Quizzical look. "Well, that's good. Maybe you can get her calm." She headed for the door.

"About her pain," I said.

"She can't have anything. Not until we really make sure she's been cleaned out."

Lucy croaked.

"Sorry, hon, it's for your own good." The nurse swung the door open, letting in fluorescence and noise. "Just try to think of something pleasant. And don't get upset again, it'll only make your head feel worse."

The door closed. I picked up Lucy's hand again. Lifeless as a glove.

She said, "I didn't."

I nodded.

"Really!"

"I believe you, Lucy."

"G'home?"

"They want to watch you for a while."

Her back arched.

"Please?"

"It's not up to me, Lucy."

She tried to push herself up from the bed. The line flew out, hissing and coiling on the bedcovers like an angry snake. The monitors were dancing.

"Listen to me," I said, putting my hands on her shoulders and easing her down without resistance.

Again, I replaced the line. She pushed up against me.

"Take m'home!"

"I can't, Lucy. That nurse was no diplomat, but she was right about one thing: You need to relax right now. And to cooperate."

Terrified looks, roller-coaster eyes.

More coughing.

"Why," she said, nearly breathless, "can't… home?"

"Because they think you're a suicide attempt. They've got you on something called a seventy-two-hour hold. That means legally they can keep you here for three days and offer you psychiatric treatment. After that, if you're no danger to yourself or anyone else, you'll be free to go."

"No!" She moaned and rolled her head from side to side.

"It's the law, Lucy. It's for your own protection."

"No!"

"I'm really sorry you have to go through this, and I want to see you up and around as soon as possible. That's why you need to cooperate."

"You… treat?"

"I'm sorry, Lucy. I'm not on the staff here. A psychiatrist named Dr. Embrey will be treating you, a woman. I'll talk to her first-"

"No!"

"I know it's frightening, Lucy, but please ride it out."

"Three days?"

"I'll stick by you. I promise."

More moans. She flinched and managed to raise a hand to her temple.

"Ohh!"

"Settle down," I said. "I know it's hard."

"Ow!"

Her hand left her head and settled at her side. She poked her rib cage with one finger.

"What is it?" I said.

"Broken."

"You think you broke a rib?"

Headshake. "Me. Broken."

"No, you're not," I said, stroking her face. "Just a little bruised."

"No… broken."

"You'll be fine, Lucy. Try to get some rest."

"Milo."

"You want me to tell Milo you're here?"

"Tell him… someone-"

"Someone?"

"Someone-" Struggling for breath, she took a deep, wheezing inhalation.

Her heart rate had climbed over a hundred. A hundred and ten…