When finally I woke, I blinked in the cool air and heard the rustle of movement; so that when a face appeared above me, I was prepared for it. It was blurry at first, but I blinked it into focus. It was Jean’s.

“Relax,” she said. “Everything’s fine. You’re going to be okay.”

A stranger appeared beside her, the man in the white coat. He had dark features and a beard that glistened as if oiled. “My name is Dr. Yuseph,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Thirsty.” A dry croak. “Weak.” I could not lift my head.

The doctor turned to Jean. “He can have an ice chip, but only one. Then another in ten minutes or so.”

I heard the clink of a spoon, and Jean leaned over me. She slipped an ice chip into my mouth. “Thanks,” I whispered. She smiled, but there was pain in it.

“How long?” I asked.

“Four days,” the doctor replied. “In and out. You’re lucky to be alive.”

Four days.

He patted me on the arm. “You’ll recover; it’ll hurt, but you’ll get there. We’ll put you on solid foods as soon as you feel up for it. Once your strength returns, you’ll start physical therapy. It won’t be long before you’re out of here.”

“Where am I?”

“Baptist Hospital. Winston-Salem.”

“What about Barbara?” I asked.

“Your sister can tell you anything you want to know. Just take it easy. I’ll be back in an hour.” He turned to Jean. “Don’t tire him. He’ll be weak for some time yet.”

Jean reappeared at the bedside. Her face was swollen, the flesh around her eyes as dark as wine. “You look tired,” I said.

She smiled wanly. “So do you.”

“It’s been a tough year,” I said, and she laughed, then turned away. When she looked back, she was crying.

“I’m so sorry, Work.” Her words broke, and the edges seemed to cut her. Her face reddened and her eyes collapsed. The tears devolved into sobs.

“For what?”

“For everything,” she said, and the words, I knew, were a plea for forgiveness. “For hating you.” Her head bowed, and with terrible effort I reached for her. I found her hand and tried to squeeze it.

“I’m sorry, too,” I whispered. I wanted to say more, but my throat closed again, and for a long time we shared a bittersweet silence. She held my hand with both of hers and I stared at the top of her head. We couldn’t go back to the way it had been for us; that place was a garden overgrown. But looking at her, I felt as close to our childhood as I ever had. And she felt it, too, as if we’d reached back to a time when apologies mattered and do-overs were a simple word away. I saw it in her eyes when she looked up.

“Did you see all your flowers?” she asked with a timid, brittle smile.

I looked past Jean and saw the room for the first time. Flowers were everywhere, dozens of vases with cards.

“Here’s a card from the local bar-every lawyer in the county signed it.” She handed me an oversized card, but I didn’t want it. I still saw the way they’d looked at me in court, the ready condemnation in their eyes.

“What about Barbara?” I asked, and Jean put the card, unopened and unread, back on the table. Her eyes moved over the room, and I was about to repeat the question.

“Are you sure you’re ready to talk about this?” she asked.

“I have to,” I said.

“She’s been arrested.”

I exhaled a mixture of relief and despair; part of me hoped that her betrayal had been the dream. “How?” I asked.

“Mills found you. You’d been shot twice, once in the chest and once in the head.” Her eyes drifted upward, and I touched my head. It was bandaged. “The one in your chest went through a lung. The head shot just grazed you. At first, she thought you were dead. You almost were. She called the paramedics and they transported you to Rowan Regional. Eventually, you were brought here.”

“But what about Barbara?”

“You were conscious in the ambulance. You managed to tell Mills who’d shot you. She arrested Barbara two hours later.”

Jean’s voice trailed off and she looked away.

“What?” I asked. I knew there was more.

“She was having a late lunch at the country club, as if nothing had happened.” Her hand settled onto mine. “I’m sorry, Work.”

“What else?” I had to move on. I could see her so clearly, sipping white wine, a fake smile plastered to her face. Lunch with the girls.

“They found the gun at your house, hidden in the basement, along with a lot of money and Mother’s jewelry.”

“I’m surprised Mills doesn’t think I put them there and shot myself.” I could not keep the bitterness from my voice.

“She feels terrible, Work. She’s been here a lot, and she’s not afraid to admit her mistake. She wanted me to tell you she was sorry.”

“Mills said that?”

“And she left something for you.” Jean got up and walked across the room. When she came back, she held a stack of newspapers. “Most are local. Some are from Charlotte. You look good in print. Mills even made a public apology.” She picked the top copy off the stack. I saw a picture of Barbara being led from a police cruiser. She was cuffed, trying to hide her face from the cameras.

“Put it down,” I said.

“Okay.” She dropped the papers onto the floor by the bed and I closed my eyes. The picture of Barbara brought it all back, the pain and betrayal. For a moment, I could not speak. When I finally looked at Jean, her eyes were veiled, and I wondered what she was seeing.

“Do you know?” I asked.

“About Barbara and Daddy?”

I nodded.

“Yes, I know. And don’t you dare apologize.”

I closed my mouth; nothing I could say would make it go away. It was a part of us now, as much his legacy as the color of my hair.

“He was a horrible man, Jean.”

“But now he’s gone, so let that be an end to it.”

I agreed, even though I knew there would never be an end to it. His presence among us lingered, like the smell of something dead but unburied.

“Would you like some more ice?” Jean asked.

“That would be nice.”

She fed me the ice, and as she hovered there, I saw the fresh scars on her wrists. They were tight and pink, as if the skin had stretched too tightly over the veins. To better protect them, perhaps. I didn’t know. With Jean, I never did; but I hoped, and I thought that maybe it was not too late to pray.

“I’m fine,” she said, and I realized that I’d been staring.

“Are you really?”

She smiled and sat back down. “You keep saving my life,” she said. “There must be some value in it.”

“Don’t joke, Jean. Not about this.”

She sighed, leaned back, and for a moment I feared I had pushed too hard. The line between us had grown vague, and I didn’t want to step over it. But when she spoke, there was no resentment, and I realized that she was taking her time and wanted me to understand.

“I feel like I’ve come through a long, dark tunnel,” she said. “It doesn’t hurt to stand straight anymore, like something’s let go inside of me.” She clenched her hands in front of her stomach and then opened them, a ten-petaled rose. “It’s hard to explain,” she said, but I thought I understood. Ezra was gone; maybe that brought closure. Maybe not. But it was not my place to fix Jean. That was a truth I’d come to understand. She had to do that herself, and looking at her smile, I thought she had it in her.

“And Alex?” I asked.

“We’re leaving Salisbury,” she said. “We need to find a place of our own.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Jean’s eyes were expressive and very real. “We have issues, like everybody, but we’re dealing with them.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” I said.

“I feel like we just found each other, Work. Alex understands that. It’s one of the things we’ve been dealing with; and while she’ll always have issues with men, she swears that she’ll make an exception for you.”

“Can she forgive me for dredging up her past?”

“She knows why you did it. She respects your reasons, but don’t ever mention it to her.”