Before long, we heard sirens approaching. A beach patrol vehicle pulled up next to us, its floodlamp bathing us in bright light. The light only made me feel greater dismay as I looked into Steven’s pale, bloodstained face. I felt Frank taking me by the shoulders, gently moving me aside. The beach patrol had a stretcher; they took Steven away on it. I stood watching as they made their way to the pier, then met an ambulance; they transferred the stretcher to that vehicle and it drove off quickly, sirens wailing.

The police arrived on the scene as well, and we talked to them for a few minutes. We had little to tell them. I hadn’t been able to see the face of the man on the pier; Jack hadn’t seen the man at all. Frank carefully held out something to a member of a forensic sciences team, saying Jack had found it on the sand.

“Actually, your dog found it,” Jack said. Frank reached down and scratched his dog’s ears while the forensics man looked it over. It was a bloody rock, about four inches in diameter. Printed on one side, in small, cramped letters, were the words “Hyacinthus Must Fall.”

“It’s another one of the myths,” Jack said. “Hyacinthus was a handsome young man who was greatly loved by the god Apollo. One day, at a competition, Apollo threw a disk that accidentally struck Hyacinthus on the forehead.”

He acted like he didn’t want to say more.

“What happened to him?” Frank asked.

“He died,” I said quietly, taking up the story. “Apollo grieved for him. As Apollo wept, a flower bloomed in the place where the blood of Hyacinthus had soaked the ground.”

I stared down at the sand, red from Steven’s blood. Frank put an arm around my shoulders, and we turned and started back to the house. I couldn’t talk. I heard Jack whistling to the dogs, following us.

When we opened the front door, Frank said, “Change clothes and we’ll go down to the hospital. I’ll help Jack with the dogs.”

I just stared up at him. Had he said something?

“Irene?”

“Okay,” I said, and walked in the house.

Frank’s mother took one look at me and rushed over to my side. She put an arm around me and walked me back to the bathroom. She turned on a faucet; I looked down and realized I was quite a sight. My hands and lap were covered in blood; my blouse was torn and my face was red and swollen from crying.

“I’d better take a shower,” I said.

“Okay, you go ahead,” she said. “I’m going to fix you something warm to drink. Your skin is as cold as ice.” She started up the shower for me as I peeled out of my clothes.

I stood in the shower, feeling the hot water pelt against me, watching the pinkish water from my skin go down the drain. Finally, I came alive a little and made myself start to scrub.

By the time I had dried off and dressed in a pair of jeans and a warm sweater, Bea was in the living room, a thermos waiting for me. “Take this with you,” she said. I looked over at the kitchen.

“You washed all the dishes.”

She ignored that. “Steven will be okay,” she said. She turned to Frank, who was sitting on the couch, looking at me with concern. “Franklin, get the lead out. Irene is worried about that boy.”

“What about you?” I asked.

“I’m fine. I’ll just wait here for you to get back. Don’t worry, I can manage.”

“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.

WE WERE SITTING in the waiting room at St. Anne’s Emergency Room before I opened the thermos. Just breathing in the aroma of the hot coffee made me feel better. I took a sip and realized it was laced with brandy.

I offered some to Frank, who took a sip, then made a face. “Wasn’t expecting that. You go ahead and drink it. I’m driving.”

I drank a half a cup and felt myself steadying a bit. I got up and went over to a pay phone and called the paper. They had already picked up the first police calls on the scanner. I gave them what I could on the story; we were past deadline, so the nightside staff was busy rearranging the front page for the morning edition. “I’m at the hospital now,” I told the man on the City Desk. “I’ll call again if I hear anything more on Kincaid’s condition.”

I sat back down next to Frank and drank more coffee. The waiting room chairs were apparently designed by the set decorator for the Spanish Inquisition. I would get up every few minutes and walk by the reception desk, which made everyone at the desk get very busy with things that made them face the other way. They were getting tired of telling me that they’d let me know about Steven as soon as they heard anything from the doctor.

It was a busy night, and I became uneasy watching the incoming stream of the injured and their worried friends and relatives. Frank finally coaxed me into putting my head on his shoulder for a while, and I fell into a restless sleep.

A voice was calling to me, and I awoke with a start. It was Frank, whose tousled hair told me he had dozed off as well. A weary doctor stood in front of us and told us she would take us back to see Steven, but only for few minutes.

“Your friend is very, very lucky,” she said. Her manner was calm and sympathetic and I felt myself unwind a fraction as we followed her down the hallway. “He has a hairline fracture of the skull. The blow caused a concussion, but if it had been a little harder, it might have damaged brain tissue, or caused problems with fluid buildup. The CAT scan didn’t show anything like that. We will want to keep an eye on him to make sure he doesn’t have other problems. He’s conscious now, but groggy. He’s experiencing some pain, but when a patient has a head injury, it’s unwise to medicate him for pain relief.” She stopped outside the door to a room. “I realize you’ve been anxious about him and have waited out there a long time. But promise you’ll think of his best interests – don’t stay too long, all right?”

We agreed and walked into the room. It brought back all of my hospital memories, and Frank put a steadying arm around me. Steven was still ghostly pale, but they had cleaned him up. He had a white bandage around his head. He opened his eyes when we came up to the bed.

Steven could wake up and look at us. I felt a tremendous sense of relief just being able to see that for myself.

“Hi, Steven,” Frank said. “Good to see you’re still with us.”

“Yeah.”

“Frank speaks from experience,” I said. “He banged his head up about six months ago. You look better than he did. But you still scared the hell out of us.” I stopped. It occurred to me that I had been talking a mile a minute.

Faint smile.

“Did you see who hit you?” Frank asked.

“No. What happened?” His speech was thick.

“You were hit by a rock.”

“I don’t remember.” He closed his eyes.

“Remember being on the beach?”

“Sort of.”

He was tiring and it was obvious that questions were confusing to him. “Good night, Steven,” I said. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

He opened his eyes and said, “I heard you.”

“Heard me what?”

“Crying. Praying, I think.”

“Both. You apparently weren’t the only one who heard me. Get some sleep.”

He closed his eyes again and we left.

IT HAD STARTED to drizzle by the time we walked back out to the car. We sat in the front seat for a moment. I looked over at the man next to me, and something in me gave way. This happens every so often; some barrier within me suddenly crumbles, some barrier I haven’t even realized was there. I reached over and pulled him closer, stretching up to kiss him. He didn’t balk at it, and returned the kiss enthusiastically. “What was that for?” he asked.

“For – I don’t know – standing by me, I suppose.”

He smiled and kept his arm around me. We didn’t say anything more to one another that night, just crawled into bed when we got home and held on to each other. That said all that needed saying.