"I imagine your premiums are high enough," she replied, smiling. "Mr. Dusk, if you want to be certain you're not going to drop dead of heart failure tomorrow, you should have the tests done."

"And what if they tell me I'm going to drop dead of heart failure tomorrow?" I asked. She studied me, fingers twining up the stethoscope's tubing into loops.

"Well, we just won't let that happen," she said finally. "How's your hand feel?"

"My hand feels fine," I answered.

"Good. Come this way."

They put me through a few basic tests, and I was too experienced with them and too tired to worry much about the indignity of sitting in a waiting room in a hospital gown. When we were finally done another doctor wanted to examine my hand, so I had to sit still while he unwound the bandage, prodded at the ragged wound, and gave me a scrutinizing look.

"Looks like a dog bite," he said finally.

"Well, it's a person-bite," I answered. I may have been sharp, but I was more than ready to be done with hospitals for a while.

"See these canines here?" he asked, pointing to two especially deep punctures.

"Look, I got it when I shoved my fingers down someone's throat and they had a spasm," I snapped. "They gave me plenty of shots, so if you could wrap me up again I'd appreciate it."

"Hm. Don't shoot the messenger," he answered, but he bandaged the hand again quickly. "You need the name of a hand specialist?"

"No, thank you."

They left me alone after that, and I rubbed the throbbing heel of my hand against my hip as I made my way back to Lucas's room. The volume of Plato was sitting on the bench where I'd left it when Angie came to take me to breakfast. I picked up the book and stood at the door, hand resting on it at chest-height, then pushed it open.

Lucas was leaning against the bed, his back to me. He was easing a hospital pajama shirt over his shoulders, and his hair stuck out in all directions as his head emerged from the collar. He moved slowly, as if he were tired and in pain.

"My parents are gone already," he said, before I had a chance to speak. "They spoke well of you."

"I'd hope so," I said. "I stopped their moron son from killing himself."

"Christopher, please don't – "

"Too late," I said. "What the hell were you thinking?"

He turned then, eyes big and dark in his face. "What was I thinking? Isn't that pretty obvious?"

"No, it's not!" I shouted. He glanced nervously at the door and I lowered my tone. "It's not obvious what you were thinking because nobody in their right mind – who does that? Did you even know what would happen? Did you think about it at all?"

"Every waking moment," he hissed.

"Oh, so you thought about how I'd feel?"

"This wasn't about you!"

"You made it about me! You made me your secret-keeper. We were friends. I care about you. And even if it wasn't about me did you consider the possibility that the boy might be the one to find you? Because he did find you. He dragged me out to The Pines. He called the helicopter to come get you. Right now he's probably back in Low Ferry wondering if you're alive or dead."

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he murmured.

"Guess what? It did anyway. And it's your fault," I snarled. "I don't really care right now what you meant to happen, Lucas."

He hung his head, hands folded across his thighs. I could practically see Nameless, see the drooping tail and flattened ears.

"Are you going to try this again?" I asked. He shrugged. "Bullshit, Lucas. I'm done playing games with you."

"No," he whispered. Which, frankly, surprised me into silence for a while. He took a breath like he was going to speak again, then let it out slowly.

"How are you?" I asked.

"Sore," he replied. "I feel stupid."

"Your parents yell at you?"

He shook his head.

"They should have," I told him.

He looked up at the ceiling. "Probably. They're going to put me in a clinic somewhere."

"For this kind of thing."

"I see you spoke with them too."

"You don't take after them, much."

"Nope. I'm a throwback," he said. "My father's father. Musician. Died in a mental institution. Nobody talks about him. I look like him."

"Well, then it must be fate," I drawled. He glanced sidelong at me. "I'm not done being pissed off at you."

"Sorry I bit your hand," he muttered.

"Good. It hurts."

"Well, I am, okay? What do you want me to say?"