I nursed my needle-wounds for a while, my hand wrapped in a proper white bandage and throbbing distantly through the painkillers, until someone brought me a scrub shirt. I put it on, then slipped away from the exam bed and found a pay-phone.

I called Charles in Low Ferry, intending to let him know where we were, but nobody answered to accept charges. I tried Paula and then Richard but I guessed the phones had gone down when the snow blew in. I tried Eighth Rare Books and got no answer there either, which was surprising until I checked a clock on the wall and found it was past eight in the evening.

After wracking my brain I managed to remember Marjorie's home number. To my relief, she answered the phone and accepted the collect-call charge.

"Christopher, is that you?" she asked in greeting. "Why are you calling collect?"

"I'm at the hospital," I said.

"Oh, my god, your heart – "

"It's not my heart."

"Well..." she trailed off. "Were you mugged?"

"I wasn't mugged," I said. "I'm fine, Marj, just shaken up."

"You sound exhausted. I didn't know you were in Chicago."

I laughed, which probably sounded horrible. "I wasn't, this afternoon. I was airlifted in."

"What do you need? Money? A ride home? If you need a kidney, sweetheart, I'm good for it."

"No, Marj, nothing like that. Can you come down?"

"Of course. What hospital? I'll leave now."

"Can you bring me a book?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Did you just ask me for a book?" she asked.

"Yeah. Sorry – "

"Any particular book?" she said sharply.

"Yeah, um. Plato. Anything with Phaedo in an English translation. Please."

"Christopher, what – " she started, but I was already hanging up. It must have frightened her, and I still feel bad about that, but I wasn't trying to be rude or obscure. I was tired, and I didn't have the mental strength to explain any further.

A young doctor with a clipboard in her hand was standing nearby, watching me patiently. When I let go of the receiver, she smiled.

"Mr. Dusk?"

"That's me."

"I have good news," she said. "Your friend's in intensive care. They've pumped his stomach for good measure, but he should be fine."

I slumped onto a nearby bench, suddenly finding it difficult to stand. "Well, that's something," I said. She frowned, then dismissed it.

"You're fast," she continued. "The paramedics said you told them you made him vomit, which was smart. Although I have to say, it doesn't seem like you were very gentle about it. He has some bruising on his chest and face."

"I was more worried about the poison."

"Well, that's good thinking. I hate to have to ask this right now, but..." she tapped her pen against her clipboard. "Are you his next-of-kin?"

"I doubt it," I said. "Don't you have this stuff on file somewhere?"

"Well, that's the thing. He hasn't got any ID on him, so we haven't been able to find his records yet. If you could fill out his information, that would be really helpful."

She held out the clipboard and I took it, looking down at the admission form. Height and weight I could estimate, hair and eye color I knew, and I was pretty sure he didn't have any allergies. It was the bit at the top that was giving me trouble.

"I don't know his last name," I said finally.

"But you do know him?" she asked.

"We're friends. I thought we were, anyway."

"What about his address?"

"He doesn't really have one. He was living outside of town, he never got any mail. I don't know what his address in Chicago was, but he used to live here. I can find out," I added, when she tried to take the clipboard back. She let go when she saw I wasn't going to release it. We sat in silence for a while.

"Mr. Dusk, he didn't eat that hemlock accidentally, did he?" she asked.

It wasn't that I didn't want to admit what he'd done. He was going to get an earful about it from me when he woke up, and I was the reason he was going to wake up at all. Well, really the boy was. But the point was that I wasn't in denial. I just didn't want to make any trouble for him.

"Do we need to put him on a suicide watch?" she asked gently.

"He's shy," I said. "He's private, he doesn't like people bothering him. I don't want them to try and commit him. He's not crazy. He's just a little messed up."

"You'd be surprised how often I hear that," she said. "Though not usually from someone who nearly lost a thumb being heroic. I'll have the nurses keep an eye on him, how's that sound?"