Protective Isolation

Disclaimers: Tim Bayliss and Bill Boisy don't belong to me, and I'm not making any money by playing with them. Ruth and Sarah are all mine, though.

Category: Slash (Bayliss/Boisy), crossover (Homicide/Hard Core Logo), series (Going Under), unabashed schmoopy hurt/comfort with a large side of angst.

Rating: NC-17

Summary: Bill's on tour with Jenifur. Tim breaks his foot. Stuff happens.

Notes: When I wrote Surprise Visit, I said that Tim had a knee replacement at some point. I started thinking about how that would have happened, and I got sucked into this. Set 13 years after Going Under, 7 years before Surprise Visit. Do y'all realize I've got more than 20 years of Tim, Bill, Ruth, Sarah, and Billie in my head at this point? I'm insane, I know.

Beta thanks to Kit, Ardent, and CatMoran, and thanks to my posse (Ardent, Ramius, Bast, and Lena) for support and feedback and encouragement. Thanks to my local posse as well, who didn't read this (except for occasional pieces I forced on R. in IM), but listened patiently to my endless talk about it. S., R., D., and A., you guys are the best. Who knew I could find such friends in Texas?

Mild semi-warning thing: There's some pretty detailed, graphic stuff in here about orthopedic injuries and sepsis, so if you're squicked by that, you might want to give it a pass or else skim. Just be glad I'm leaving out the excerpts from Wound I used for research—Ardent got to see those, lucky woman that she is ;-).

Feedback me at bodge38@earthlink.net

Protective Isolation

by shell

copyright 2003

Part I

It's Jenifur's last tour. Seriously. We're not the Stones. We mean it. My shoulder bothers me more every year, Kat and Chelle want to spend more time with Danny, maybe even adopt another kid, give him a brother or a sister. Deeja's side work is getting more and more important to her, so she's been away from the band a lot for that. We're still proud of the songs we've written over the past few years, but we're not breaking any new ground. It's time. We've all agreed.

Actually, we all agreed over a year ago—it took that long to set everything up and get us started on this huge fucking tour. We spent a few months this spring touring Europe; we've got dates planned in Japan and Australia for this fall, before we come back and do the grand finale back home. But now it's summer, and we're doing North America, four months of touring without a break.

Because it's summer, and because he's only 11, Danny's along for the tour. It's cool having him around, but it sucks, too, because it's just another reminder that I'm away from my own family. Ruth's got a summer job at the museum, the only museum in town, so she's home with Tim, the last summer she'll be with us before she graduates and heads off to grad school somewhere. Sarah's in France, working her ass off as a sous chef at some big-name chalet—we haven't seen her since Tim flew out and met me when we were touring there last spring.

I haven't seen Tim for a month and a half, and I can hear the frustration in his voice on the phone every night, just as I'm sure he can hear it in mine. We've been together for 13 years, and I still fucking hate it when we're apart. It's not the sex—okay, it's partly the sex, but mainly I just miss him.

I worry about him, too. Yeah, it's stupid—he's perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Fuck, he just turned 55; it's not like he's Danny's age. And I know that, just like I know he was a detective and an FBI agent, and he's a sharpshooter, and he's really fucking smart, and he's been through six kinds of hell and gotten stronger through all of it, and I know all that. I also know pushes himself too hard in the pool, and works too fucking much, at the Fund and at the hospital, where he's been on the Board of Directors for a few years now. He doesn't sleep well when I'm gone, and he has more nightmares. And I love him, more than you'd believe possible. So I worry. Because I'm a fucking putz.

I'm hoping to persuade him and Ruthie to fly out to the east coast this coming weekend, when we'll be playing a couple gigs in New England. I left a message for him earlier today, but it's not until after I get back to the hotel that I find the message from Ruth.

I call her back, wondering why she called instead of Tim, but trying not to worry about it. Come to find out they were hiking, and Tim fell and broke his foot. Well, first she tries to imply he only twisted his ankle, because apparently he threatened her with bodily harm if she told me the truth, but she figures I'm more likely to harm her than he is, given I'm not the one stuck in bed with his foot casted, so she gives in when I pressure her a little and tells me the truth. She swears it's nothing serious, tells me he will kill her if I come home over this, and informs me he was given some good drugs at the hospital and is out for the count.

"I guess that blows my plan to get you two out here this weekend all to shit," I grumble.

She laughs. "Sorry, Bill."

"He's okay, though?"

"He's fine. The doc said there was nothing to worry about."

"They consult with Taggert?"

"Dad asked Dr. Jones to, so you can quit worrying."

"He saw some fuck named Dr. Jones? The guy didn't look like Harrison Ford, did he?"

"No, he didn't, although he is kind of cute," she says, sighing at my lame attempt at humor. "Dr. Jones is new, just moved to Flag from, um, Chicago, I think it was. He seemed very confident. Confident there wouldn't be any complications."

"And he's asleep, huh?"

"Safe and sound in bed. I'll give him your love, and we'll both talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay, fine, I know a brush-off when I hear one."

"It's late, Bill. It's been a rough day, and I'm tired. Contrary to what you might be thinking, I love my father, and I was worried about him, too, but he's fine, and I need to get some sleep."

"Sorry, kiddo. You're staying home with him tomorrow, right?"

"I'm going in to work late. Gwen's stopping by at lunch time—she'll hang out with him until I get back. Now, are you satisfied he's not going to die from a fucking broken foot?"

We laugh a little, and then I give her my love and send her on to bed. The next afternoon, I talk to Tim, and he sounds grumpy as fuck, in pain, and drugged up, but considering the circumstances, that's pretty normal. He reassures me that he's still perfectly capable of getting around on crutches, so I shouldn't worry that Ruth's going back to her normal work schedule and Gwen's going on vacation. I don't like it, but don't have any choice but to go along.

Next day he sounds tired, but less pissed. Progress of a sort, I guess. Day after, though, he just doesn't sound right to me. He swears he's fine, just tired and hurting. I ask if he's talked to the doc, and he says he has an appointment in a couple days with Luke Begay.

I try to ignore how I'm obsessing, because more than one member of our family has referred to me as a fucking Mother Hen on occasion, and I don't need to do anything more to cement that reputation. But he sounds worse the next day, so I get him to promise to call Taggert in Phoenix. That eases my mind some.

I'm doing a live interview on a local television station a few hours later when my cell rings. The interviewer ignores it, and I pretend to, but the second they cut to commercial I check, and there's a frantic message from Ruth, asking me to call right away.

I get up, move out of my chair, go to call her back, and the prick from the television station asks me where the hell I think I'm going. "Family emergency, asshole," I tell him, glad I've got Ruthie's cell programmed into mine, because there's no answer at home. She picks up right away.

"My god, Bill," she says, and I can tell she's crying, "he's unconscious, they think from an infection, and he's so pale—"

"Where are you?" I ask, pulling the mike off my shirt, the battery pack off the back of my pants, dropping them on the ground.

"Following the ambulance. Taggert called me—he said he'd been talking to Dad, and he was worried, that I needed to go home and check on him, so I did, and I got there and I couldn't wake him up, and he was burning up, so I called 911."

"Okay, okay, listen. I don't want you to need another ambulance, you hear me? So you drive yourself to the hospital, and you drive carefully. You call me when you get there. If—when he wakes up, you tell him I'll be there, soon as I can. For now, you just concentrate on getting yourself there in one piece, understand?" I push the panic back under the surface. He's on his way to the hospital, a good hospital, where we know the staff and they know us. I'll get there, and he'll laugh at me for being so worried.

"Yeah, yeah, I understand. You're coming?"

"Of course I am, doofus. I'll see you as soon as I can get there. Call me when you're at the hospital."

I push end and notice the producer from the station is standing next to me. "What's going on?" she asks. "We've got an interview to finish."

"Listen, I'm sorry, but I can't stay," I tell her, trying to keep my cool.

"What do you mean, you can't stay?" she says shrilly. "This is live, Mr. Boisy, don't you understand that?"

"Listen, you bitch," I snarl. She flinches, and I have the fleeting thought that the publicist is going to need to do some work here. Fine—that's what we pay her for. "As I told your so-called interviewer there, I have a family emergency. I have to leave, right now, and I don't give a shit about you being live. Make something up, whatever, I don't give a fuck—I've got to get on a plane and go home, so fuck off." Then I turn and walk off, calling Kat, quickly giving her the news I have to split. She tells me not to worry, that they'll take care of all the bullshit, that I should just take a taxi to the airport and get on the next plane to Phoenix. She starts yelling for her assistant before she even hangs up, and I breathe a tiny sigh of relief over how great my bandmates are.

Then I jump in a taxi and head for the airport. I decide to wait on calling Sarah or Virginia until I know more—I'm not quite ready to face those calls yet.

Ruth doesn't call back until I'm headed for the gate, having lucked out and snagged a seat on a flight for Phoenix leaving in an hour; the only other option was a flight to Vegas in 45 minutes, but it was full. I figure I can book the flight to Flag from the air, charter one if need be—sometimes it's a fucking pain in the ass living where we do. When Ruth finally calls, though, I'm glad I didn't book through, or get on the plane for Vegas, because she says they're life-flighting Tim down to Good Sam.

For the third time since I've known him, Tim's going to be a patient at Good Samaritan Regional Medical Center, and for the second time it's going to be because he's in too bad shape to be in anything other than a large metropolitan hospital.

"It's that bad?"

"Yeah, it's bad," she says, her voice shaking. "Hurry, okay?"

"Jesus, Ruth—what the fuck is wrong with him?"

"An infection, a bad one. That doctor, Dr. Jones—fuck, Billy, apparently he's a total fuck-up, practically lost his license in Illinois. He never even called Taggert, and he fucked up the surgery—"

"You never told me he had surgery." I'm unable to keep the anger out of my voice.

"I know, I know; I'm sorry. Dad was so—fuck. He didn't even want me to tell you he'd broken his foot, and I figured if I told you they had to put a couple pins in, you would've flown home, and he really seemed fine, and now—" She starts crying.

"How bad is it? Is he going to lose the leg?"

"He might. If he makes it."

"If he makes it? Oh, fuck, Ruth—"

"They don't know what's causing the infection, what antibiotics to use, and apparently there's this resistant strain, and if it's that, or if he gets something called DIC, he could die. They keep talking about septic shock, and something with necrosis, and I know that means cell death, right? I should call Mickey, she's the bio nerd. And I don't have a clue what DIC is—"

"Disseminated something," I say blankly, flashing back to the first days after Church Canyon, to all the possible complications Marilyn told me about. "He'd start bleeding out, I think—he's not bleeding, is he?"

"No, not the last time I saw him. They're still working on getting him stabilized before they get him on the plane, but they're hoping to take off in a half hour or so, and they said I could see him again then, before they leave. I'm outside now, at the ER entrance, so I could use the phone, you know how it is—"

"Yeah, I know," I say wearily, thinking it's about time they developed cell phones that didn't interfere with hospital equipment, or hospital equipment that didn't get interfered with. I have a fleeting thought to ask Tim to bring it up at the next board meeting before I realize how impossible that could turn out to be. "Listen, kiddo, they're about to board my flight, and I need—fuck, I need to call your sister and your grandmother."

"Both my sisters," she says. "Don't forget to call Billie—she loves him too, you know."

"Yeah, I know," I repeat. "We all—we all love him—" and I can't say anything else.

"He knows, Bill. I'll tell him again, but he knows. He knows you love him, and he knows you'll be here."

"I will," I choke out. "You tell him to hold on, that I'll be there."

"I'll tell him," she says thickly, then clears her throat. "Get on the plane already. I've got to get back in there."

"How are you getting to Phoenix?"

"I've got a seat on the next flight, and one on the flight after that, in case I don't make the first one. Annie's picking me up at the airport—you know, Marilyn's daughter?"

"Good. I'll see you there, then." I swallow. "It's good you were there, Ruthie. I love you."

"Love you too, Bill. I'll see you at the hospital."

I make it onto the plane, relieved when no one approaches me for an autograph, because this is one day when I am truly not capable of dealing with my celebrity status. I hit Sarah's number on the cell, wondering what the fuck time it is in France anyway. Fortunately, she answers after a couple rings—apparently I woke her up.

"Bill? What's wrong?" she asks sleepily.

"It's your dad, Mouse. He's in the hospital again, and it's pretty bad—he broke his foot a couple days ago, and somehow it got infected, and he's in bad shape. He's on his way to Phoenix."

"Wait a minute. Fuck. Wait. They're life-flighting him from Flag?"

"Yeah. Ruth came home, found him unconscious, called 911. They, uh, they're worried it's some sort of resistant bacteria or something."

"Fuck. Okay, um, jesus, I've got to call the airport, find out when I can get a flight. Henri's going to be pissed; I'm supposed to work breakfast, but it sounds like I need to get there—you said it's bad?"

"Yeah, Mouse, it's bad. You need to get here."

"Bill, you sound—how bad is it?"

"It's really bad, Sarah. It's really fucking bad."

"He's not going to die, is he?"

"Ruth says they told her he—if he's got this one resistant bacteria, they might not be able to—he might lose his leg, or he might not make it."

"Oh my god," she says. "And you're—"

"I'm on a plane, sitting at the gate, three hours and fifteen minutes from landing in Phoenix. If we're not delayed."

"Have you talked to Grandma?"

"Not yet. Wanted to call you first."

"Don't forget to call Billie, too," she says absently, her mind no doubt working on the problem of getting from the French countryside to Phoenix as soon as possible.

"I won't," I reply, amazed at how calm we both are. "You okay for money? Have enough to pay for the ticket?"

"Sure, sure, that's what plastic's for," she murmurs.

"We'll pay you back."

"That's not—listen, I'd better let you go. I've got to call Henri, and the airport, and you've got to call Grandma. I'll, uh, I'll call you when I know my flight info. And you'll call me—"

"I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"Tell him I love him."

"I will. I'll see you soon."

"Yeah. Love you, Bill."

"Love you too, kiddo."

People are still straggling onto the plane, so I bite the bullet and call Virginia, who's in her eighties now and still going strong. She takes the news practically like she was expecting it—I guess she's been through it so many times, even more than I have, what with the shooting—but I've gotten to know her pretty well over the last dozen years, and I know as soon as I hang up she's going to lose it, that she needs to wait until no one can hear her, and that's close enough to how I'm feeling right now that I push the thought away as quickly as I can.

They make the turn the cellular phones off announcement, so I have to wait to call Billie. Since that feels, for some reason, like it's going to be an even more difficult call than the others, I don't mind. I stare blankly out the window as we taxi and take off, stare at the ground, at the clouds, until I realize with a start we've been in the air for nearly an hour.

I deal with the skyphone shit, glad I have at least some phone numbers memorized. I think at first she's not home, because the machine picks up, but then she grabs the phone.

"Dad? What's wrong?"

I tell her.

"Jeez, Dad—are you all right?"

And that's almost it, I almost fucking lose it, sitting there in first class, not even halfway to Phoenix, because I know Billie loves Tim, but I also know it's different with me and her, and I can hear in her voice how she's worried about me, worried about her father, the way Ruth and Sarah worry about theirs, and it almost undoes me. I take a breath, trying to center myself, and that makes me think of him again, my eyes burning, but I swallow and manage to get it back under control and give her what little details I have.

"I don't know if you wanted—I know you're busy at work, and with Evan—how's he doing?"

"He's doing fine—the chemo's working. And I'll be there as soon as I can get a flight."

"Thanks, Lovebug," I manage to tell her, pinching my nose. "It'll be good to see you, and Tim, if—fuck, Billie—"

"I know, Dad," she says. "I'll be there as soon as I can. I love you—both of you. You tell him that, when you see him. And give Sarah and Ruth my love, too."

"They'll be glad to see you."

"Everything's going to be fine, Dad. I have a good feeling. And we'll just have a big old family reunion at that stupid hospital."

"Yeah, we will," I reply, trying to believe it. "I, uh, I'd better call and arrange for some hotel rooms, though, for everyone."

"Sure, that's a good idea," she says, and I know she understands my need to be doing something constructive. "I'll see you soon," she repeats. "I'll call you when I know when I'm getting in, okay?"

"I love you, Billie."

"I love you too."

I spend the next while on the phone with the hotel, car rental places, checking my voicemail to see if there are any new messages from Ruthie—there is one, letting me know Tim's on his way, and so is she, but with no additional information.

I call Good Sam, and after getting put on hold and transferred and disconnected a bunch of times, I finally hear a familiar voice—Lisa, one of his old nurses, the one who was brand spanking new when Tim was there the first time, the one who's a Clinical Nurse Specialist in orthopedics now. She confirms Tim's going not only onto 7 North, but back into his old room. She tries to reassure me, but she doesn't know anything more than anyone else. She does tell me Marilyn's on the case, although she's not arrived at the hospital yet: "She said to tell you she'd see you when you got here, and that she'd keep Scott Taggert in line." I ask if I can talk to Scott, but she tells me he's on the line with the folks in the plane, and I can't argue with that.

I feel a little better when I get off the phone. Lisa gives me the latest report from the plane: Tim's still unconscious, still in bad shape, but "critical but stable," at least for now. After a few more minutes staring out the window, then trying to leaf through the fucking flight magazine, I'm going nuts again. So I call Rob Wilson, figuring the more good docs, the better, since it sounds like this Jones guy really fucked things up.

Rob's away from the office, his receptionist tells me, but when I explain the situation, she says she'll page him and have him call Phoenix. Rob and Scott have developed a friendship over the years, dealing together and separately with Tim's stubborn ass, trying to convince him a knee replacement might be helpful, but he's always refused, saying he didn't want any more surgery if he could help it, and who could blame him. And now—fuck, now the next surgery might take his leg, and that might be the best we can hope for. And suddenly I'm hoping for it, that they can just take the fucking leg that's been such a source of pain for so long; maybe it would've been better if they'd just amputated back then, because then this never would have happened, and of course that's stupid fucking logic, but I can't seem to help thinking it.

I go round and round with that for awhile, then call voice mail again, writing down Virginia's flight information, leaving messages for her, Sarah, Ruthie, and Billie about the cars that are waiting for them, and where I've reserved rooms, and then I talk to Kat and Chelle's assistant. I get her because Kat and Chelle are apparently busy auditioning guitarists to fill in for me on the rest of the tour, because, fuck, we're supposed to be appearing on some fucking awards show or other in a few days, which I had completely forgotten about, but their assistant, a new one, this perky chick named Stephanie, tells me not to worry, that they're all praying or sending vibes or good thoughts or whatever, and then she passes the phone to Danny, and he just shoots the shit with me for a few minutes, joking about the lack of talent these people they're auditioning have. He hands the phone off to Deej, and she's joking around, too, and I know she's doing it for me, that her voice is all nasal and congested because she's been crying, but it's okay, it still helps, because ever since we got past that stupid thing she had for me, we've been buddies, good buddies.

Then, finally, the flight attendant comes around and tells me I have to hang up, because we're making our final approach. It takes fucking forever for us to land and taxi up to the gate, to get to the rental place and pick up the car, and it takes even longer to get to the hospital, fighting the end of rush hour traffic. My hands are shaking on the steering wheel the same way they were that night in Church Canyon thirteen years ago, and I think, fuck, thirteen years, I had longer than that with Joe; I need at least twenty years with Tim, to balance the scales or something, and then I push that thought away too.

And then I pull into the parking garage, finally, and I run into the hospital, and I wait for the fucking elevator, and I wait until it gets to 7, wait past the people getting off at 3 and 4 and 6, and then I push my way past the asshole standing in front of the door and make my way onto 7 North.

I want to run, but I walk, because I'm not sure what I'm going to find at the end of that long, familiar hallway. The paint's a little faded from what it was, and some of the faces are different, staring at me curiously, but then there's Ruthie, standing in front of the windows, looking in at the still, pale, familiar form on the bed, and she turns and sees me, and she hugs me and starts to cry.

"Ruthie?" I say, and she holds on tighter.

"They won't say anything," she sobs. "They won't tell me anything, except they're doing everything they can."

Fuck. "Doing everything they can" sounds like what they tell you before they tell you they did everything, but the damage was too extensive, and the patient died. "Jesus, fuck, please—" It takes me a second to realize I said it out loud. I kiss Ruth's cheek, then gently reposition her at my side, so we can look through the glass together.

"He's breathing on his own, at least," I murmur, relieved to see an oxygen mask instead of a tube down his throat. I'd feel better if he just had one of those nasal canula things, but I'll take a mask over a tube any day.

"Yeah," Ruth says, wiping her nose on her sleeve. "They, uh, they put in a central line, an IV that goes right into his heart, a permanent one, to get the antibiotics and everything into him better. And they've got him in isolation, because they still think it might be that resistant bacteria. They let me in, once, for just a couple minutes, but I had to put on a gown and a mask and gloves."

"He's never had a central line before," I say. "And he's never been in isolation. Did they say when they'd have the cultures back?"

"I've got the results right here," says a familiar voice, and I turn to see Scott Taggert. He puts his arm around Ruthie, then squeezes my shoulder. "It's not the best news—he's got a high count of MRSA, high enough that I'm still very concerned we'll be able to fight it quickly enough, but the Vancomycin we're giving him is effective against it, at least."

"So it's thank god for small favors?" Ruth asks.

"Yes, that's it in a nutshell," he replies, giving her a little smile.

"Can I see him?" I ask urgently.

"Of course. You'll need to suit up—did Ruth tell you? The supplies are over by the door there. And here's Lisa—I think she's about to go in there with some IVs, so she can show you what to do."

Lisa gives me a quick hug and a kiss. "Come on, Billy, I know you need to get in there, and so do I." She helps me get the gown and the mask on, and the gloves, and then we walk through the door. She goes right over to the IV poles and starts hanging whatever it is she's got; it looks like he's got at least three other lines running concurrently, so maybe the central line's not such a bad thing—he always hated getting stuck, despite the fact all the nurses and phlebotomists raved over how great his veins were.

I recognize Marilyn's smile just from her eyes. She comes right over and takes my gloved hand in hers, and then she's explaining everything, what fluids they've got, how the central line goes from his chest into one vein and then down to the big one that leads to his heart, how they put in a Swan-ganz, which is an arterial line, to monitor his blood pressure, which he had once before, right after the stoning, so that sounds a little familiar, at least. She tells me that he hasn't gained consciousness yet, but he's still stable. He hasn't gotten any worse, is what that means, but it's good enough news for now.

His leg looks worse than any time since right after Church Canyon—it's swollen to more than twice its normal size, red and angry and ugly, and his foot is even worse—it's blue-black in places, especially his toes, and Marilyn says he'll probably lose a couple, no matter what. And there's a smell, faint but pungent, even through the mask, different from the unpleasant but familiar hospital smells. It takes me a second to place it, and then I get it. It's the stink of rotting meat, and it's coming from Tim's foot, oh jesus.

Marilyn finds a stool for me and sits me down next to him, and I take his hand, wishing like fuck I didn't have to wear the stupid gloves, but even through the latex I can feel how hot his skin is, and I ask Marilyn, and she tells me they've only gotten the fever down to 103 so far, and I realize they've got him on a cooling blanket, and I look at all the monitors and IV pumps, and I start to shake a little.

"Talk to him, Bill," Marilyn urges, putting her arm around me. I take a deep breath, then let it out. Talk to him. I can do that.

I brush the damp hair back from his forehead. "I'm here, Tim," I tell him. "I'm here, so quit scaring the fuck out of me and wake up, all right?" There's no response. I keep running my free hand over his cheeks, his forehead, the line between his brows, all the parts of his face not covered by the oxygen mask.

"You know, I'm getting tired of spending time in this hospital, Timothy. I know the people here are great, but I think it's time we stopped challenging them so much, okay? I think their lives are a little easier when we're hanging out at home, leaving them alone."

I take a shaky breath, then watch him breathe, watch how shallow and rapid his breathing is, even on 12 liters of oxygen—that's a lot, I think—but the monitor says 95%, so that's good, even if his pulse is 138, 134, 136, 133—fast, like it was right after Church Canyon, when he'd lost all that blood. I watch the numbers for a minute, and I don't think about the fact that it's taking 12 liters to get his saturation to only 95%, because I know 95% is okay, it's fine, it does the job. That's what Marilyn told me once, a long time ago, and I hold onto it.

"I'm sorry you were alone; I'm so fucking sorry about that. Fuck, Tim, why didn't you call me? I'm sorry I wasn't there. I'm supposed to be there, and I wasn't. But I'm here now, and I'm not going anywhere. I mean it—I'm not going anywhere. I'm not sure they'll let me sleep in here tonight, because of this bacteria you've got, but if I'm not on that couch, or better yet in this bed with you, cooling blanket be damned, I'll be right outside. I'll sleep on the fucking floor, if that's what it takes. But I'm not sleeping at all until I know you're all right, so take pity on the aging guitar player with the bum shoulder and wake the fuck up, okay?"

I think I see his eyelids flicker, but I know that doesn't mean anything.

"Sarah's on her way. She won't be here until tomorrow, though. Your mom's coming, too; she gets in late tonight. I don't know what flight Billie got, but she's gonna be here, too. And you know Ruthie's here. They all love you. And you know—fuck, you know I love you, more and more every fucking day, and you and I have a deal, and that deal includes fifty more years, and I'm holding you to it, you hear me?"

His eyelids flicker again, and his fingers twitch.

Marilyn comes up behind me. "Keep talking," she murmurs. "His BP's up, his heart rate's down, and he's breathing easier. He knows you're here. Even if he can't tell you yet, he knows." I lean back, and she squeezes my shoulder.

"I'm gonna fucking lose it," I mutter, and she squeezes my shoulder again.

"That's okay, as long as you don't try to wipe your eyes or blow your nose," she says. "Not until you get back outside, anyway. Go on, keep talking."

"Marilyn's here, Tim, and she says you can hear me. I'm glad you can, because I have a lot of shit to give you for what you're putting us through here. Kat and Chelle are busy auditioning guitarists, because I am not rejoining that fucking tour until—shit, I may never tour again. Let them finish the final tour without me, because clearly you get into far too much trouble when I'm gone. And you couldn't get just any infection, you had to get one that puts you in isolation, that means I have to wear this stupid mask and these horrible fucking gloves—you and I have never gone for any latex between us, and I'm not too happy about starting now." I hear muffled laughter behind a couple masks. I take a deep breath, and I notice the smell again, but I'm not going to think about that.

"Did you know they put you back in your old room? It is better than that one you were in a few years ago, the last time you scared the fuck out of me. Shit, that was about touring, too—clearly, I have got to can the rock star shit, like Joe said, because it's dangerous to your health. So I guess it's a good thing I was quitting anyway. I'll stick close to home from now on, I promise. You'll get sick of me, that's how close I'll stick." Another finger twitch, a little stronger this time.

"And don't think you're going anywhere, either. I think I'll keep you tied to the bed, maybe—you should be safe there. We've never tried anything like that before; maybe it'll be fun, what do you think?"

Definite finger movement, and his eyelids are twitching again, and my vision's a little blurrier than usual, so I blink a couple times. I'm careful not to wipe my eyes; I just keep stroking his face.

"Yeah, I think tying you to the bed is the best answer. I promise I'll use nice, padded cuffs—synthetics, no leather or fur, because I know that's important to you. Because I wouldn't want to do anything that would keep you from practicing the Eightfold Fucking Path. You'll still be able to meditate just fine. I might even let you up for kinhin sometimes, as long as you promise not to leave the house."

He opens his eyes and looks at me, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

"Hey there," I tell him, and he squeezes my hand, and I lean down and rest my cheek against his, until I realize I'm getting his oxygen mask wet. He reaches up and brushes a tear away with his thumb, and I figure it's got to be okay if he does it, because he's already got the bacteria, but they'll probably make me wash my face with something nasty. It's worth it, though, to feel his thumb on my face, flesh on flesh.

He tries to say something, but it's hard to hear through the mask, so I lean back down, closer to his mouth. He repeats it, a little clearer. "Not going anywhere."

"Thank fucking god," I tell him. "Shit, Tim, if you ever scare me like this again—I can't take it. I'm not as young as I used to be. I'll have a heart attack or stroke out or something, and then where would we be?"

"Love you too," he says. "I'm really tired."

"Okay, tell you what. I'm going to get Ruthie in here, and after you do your miraculous keeping your eyes open and saying a word or two thing for her, you can go to sleep, all right? You just have to promise me you'll sleep, not go into another fucking coma."

"Promise."

I run my hand along his face again. "I love you, Tim. I'll see you again after you've had a nap."

He squeezes my hand. "Glad you're here."

"Yeah, me too. See you in a bit."

And then I get out of there, and they do make me wash my face with this nasty fucking super-strength anti-bacterial soap, but I get to do it in the bathroom down the hall, behind a closed door, so no one can tell I'm bawling like a fucking baby the entire time, and I can blame the red eyes on the soap when I come back out.

Ruth is back outside again, throwing another gown, mask, and gloves into the trash. She and I share a long, long hug, and then we talk to Scott. He says it's good that Tim woke up, and his vitals are better, but we're far from out of the woods.

We spend some time on the lovely topics of septic shock, necrotizing fasciitis, and the possible, worst-case complications like DIC, ARDS, and multi-system organ failure, otherwise known as the three main ways this fucking infection could kill him (he could bleed out or throw blood clots or both; he could stop breathing; or the bacteria could attack all his vital organs). I'm kind of surprised how much I understand of his explanation, how much I remember from 13 years ago, when I first heard about all this shit.

I've spent so much time with doctors and nurses, so much time in hospitals, that they all seem to assume I'm one of them. Usually, that's good—I know no one at Flagstaff Medical or Good Sam would ever try to bullshit me—but sometimes I wonder if they realize they're talking to a high school drop-out. I may know how to do pin care, read an oxygen saturation monitor, and recognize a chest tube, and I may have heard all these terms before, but just because I know DIC means bleeding and possible death doesn't mean I know what the fuck it actually is.

We keep talking for awhile, me doing my best impression of a health care professional, Scott talking to me like I understand everything he's saying. Ruth just stares at the two of us blankly, then asks if Scott can tell us anything concrete in terms of Tim's chances. He shakes his head and says it's too early to tell, but if things continue to improve through the night, that'll be really encouraging.

I ask him to walk me through how the fuck this happened in the first place, and he tells me what he can. This Dr. Jones at Flagstaff Medical never contacted him, despite assuring Tim and Ruth he had; Jones performed surgery, putting in a couple pins, internal ones, then casted Tim's foot and ankle, despite the fact Tim had a couple puncture wounds and some nasty abrasions from the fall that should have been watched closely.

That's what he found out after the fact, of course, after Tim called. Scott finally talked to Tim this afternoon, and he was pissed as hell about Jones' lying, and also worried about how weak Tim sounded, so he called Ruth. He also called Flagstaff Medical and talked with Luke Begay, the orthopedist in Flag who's been following Tim these past few years, who'd apparently been off at some conference when Ruth brought Tim in originally.

When the ambulance got Tim to the hospital, they took off his cast and discovered one of the pins had broken through the skin, providing a perfect path for bacteria, straight through to the bone. As soon as they get Tim a little more stable, they're going to have to go in, remove the pins, and see how much damage the infection did to the bones in his feet and leg before they caught it.

Now they're dealing with a few different issues—they isolated MRSA (which turns out to stand for "Methcillin Resistant Staphylococcus Aureus," which is some sort of bad-ass resistant bug) from his blood, but they think there are other bacteria involved as well, especially since MRSA doesn't often infect bone. They're also concerned that Tim's weakened state might predispose him to necrotizing fasciitis, if he doesn't have it already, which is a whole other ballgame that could also lead to him losing his leg or possibly dying. I gather NF is something similar to that skin-eating bacteria. Or something—it's bad, anyway. There are some signs of NF—the way his toes are black—but they're hoping they caught it in time.

I can tell Scott's walking a fine line with this discussion—none of us are new to the idea that physicians like to protect their own, but I can see the anger he's trying to keep under wraps. After I finish talking to him, I suit up again and watch Tim sleep for a few minutes. I can feel that he's cooled off some, and Marilyn confirms his temp's down another degree, and his vitals are stable. "He's doing better, Bill," she tells me. "He's strong—he's going to make it. I'm sure of it."

"Thanks, Marilyn." I give her a hug. "I'm really glad you're here—I know you'll do your best for him, and make sure everyone else does, too."

"We all will. You need anything?"

"No." I turn to Tim, then back. "Wait, yes. In a minute, outside, a phone. Can I use the one at the desk there? I need to make some calls, and I don't want to go far."

"Sure," she says, "we'll make room for you."

So after I satisfy myself again that he's breathing easily, if rapidly; that he's sleeping; that he's doing better, I manage to tear myself away and leave the room. It helps that I have to piss like a fucking racehorse.

After I take care of that, I sit down at the desk, dial Flagstaff Medical, and ask for Jason Barrios, the hospital administrator. Who works for the Hospital Board. Of which Tim is a member. But the new employee on the switchboard doesn't know who I am, so she just forwards me to Delia, his secretary.

"Delia, it's Bill Boisy. I need to talk to Jason."

"Bill, how's Tim?"

"He's doing a little better, Delia, thanks. He woke up, and his temp's down a bit. Of course, all they'll say is he's critical but stable, not out of danger, let's see how he is in the morning—you know how it is."

"When you get a chance, will you let him know we're all praying for him?"

"I'll tell him. Is Jason around?"

"He's in a meeting, but I know he'll want to talk to you. Can you hold on a minute?"

"Sure."

I suppose there are worse things than hearing a Muzaked version of a song you wrote while you wait on hold to talk to a hospital administrator, incidentally a friend of the family's, about how his hospital fucked up and nearly got your lover killed. Someday I'll probably even be able to laugh about it. Oh, who am I kidding? I admit it, I might have giggled a little, from hysteria if nothing else. Fortunately, I only have to listen to a few bars of Adena's Song before Jason picks up the phone.

"Bill, it's Jason—how's Tim?"

I go through the litany again, knowing I'll be giving countless updates to countless people for days, some of the other calls I need to make niggling at the back of my mind. Then I get to it.

"You want to tell me how the fuck this happened? And what you're doing about it?"

He sighs. "I'm so sorry, Bill. We all are. Jones has been suspended, of course, and we're looking into how he was hired, how the ER was staffed that night, all of it."

"Suspended? I want his sorry ass fired, Jason."

"He will be, I assure you, as soon as we've got all the documentation we need. We've gotten statements from some of the nurses, and it turns out there were a couple complaints from other patients, but you know as well as I do, if we don't get all of our ducks in a row, he could sue for wrongful termination or some other bullshit."

"Do I need to call my lawyer?"

His voice firms. "You can always do that, if you feel it's necessary, but I assure you that we are doing everything we can to resolve the situation."

"Spoken like a true administrator. Jason, Tim's a board member. If this could happen to him, what else has this Jones fucker done? Ruth said something about his license being suspended in Illinois?"

"No, it wasn't suspended—we never would have hired him if that were the case. But apparently there were some problems, problems we were unaware of, at the hospital in Chicago, and there was some sort of inquiry."

Ruth comes and sits down next to me.

"Listen, Jason, I've got to go, but you know we're not done with this."

"No, I know we're not, and that's okay. Just take care of Tim, and let us know how he's doing. I'll take care of this, Bill—that's a promise. Shit like this is not supposed to happen, especially not in my hospital."

"No, shit like this is not supposed to happen. I'll call you—maybe not until tomorrow, unless something happens."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, then," he says, and I hang up, suddenly exhausted.

"Who was that?" Ruth asks.

"Jason Barrios."

"Oh. So you were talking to him about Dr. Jones, huh?"

"Yeah. What's up?"

"He's still asleep. Marilyn wants to know if you'd be okay sleeping in a room just down the hall, since you can't sleep with Dad. She says there're a couple beds and a couch, so both of us can stay tonight. I don't know when anyone else is getting here—"

"You don't have to stay, kiddo. I got a bunch of rooms at the Embassy Suites. It's closer to the airport than here, but it's better than the skanky shit that's available around here—you and I could handle it, but I don't want your grandmother staying at HoJos, you know?"

"I think Grandma might surprise you there, Rock Star. But I'm not going anywhere, not tonight."

"Yeah, I figured," I say, giving her a kiss. "I'm glad you're here."

"When's everyone else getting here?"

"Shit, I don't even know what time it is—"

"It's about 7:30," she answers, and I stare at her, dumbfounded, because it has got to be midnight. Then I realize it's summer, and it's Arizona, and I've spent the last couple weeks on Eastern time. It is past midnight, for me anyway, and although normally that wouldn't faze me, right now it hits me like a motherfucking train.

"Let me guess," says Marilyn dryly, once again coming up behind us, like the fucking mind-reading super-nurse she is. "You haven't eaten in more than twelve hours, right?"

I nod, and she pulls a candy bar and a couple of juice boxes out of her pocket. "I was going to order up a couple trays for you two, but I wasn't sure—Ruth, you're a vegetarian, like your father, right?"

"That's right," she replies. "And Bill pretends he isn't, but I haven't seen him eat any red meat in years."

"Excuse me, Bill." Marilyn grabs the phone, punches a few numbers, and orders two vegetarian guest trays. I scarf down the candy bar and hand one of the juice boxes to Ruth. "Get him to take a nap after he eats, would you?" Marilyn says to Ruth.

She snorts. "Yeah, like that's gonna happen." Then the two of them laugh. I open my mouth to say something, I'm not sure what, but then I see Billie coming around the corner, and she's got Virginia with her, and next thing I know it's the whole hugging and kissing and women crying thing all over again. I take Virginia in to see her son, and he wakes up again, for a little longer than the last time. He still looks—well, to be quite honest, he looks like fucking death warmed over, but he smiles at us from behind that stupid oxygen mask, before the morphine they've got him on knocks him out again, and I start to breathe just a little easier.

Part II

Tim's not in the hospital quite as long as his record-breaking stint of 2002, but it's close. It's three days before they even feel safe enough to try and fix his foot—fortunately, he only loses his pinky toe and the tip of one other, and the bones look like they're going to hold together okay. And once that's over, the smell's better, except when they debride the wound, which fortunately is not something a carepartner is expected to do, because between the smell and the way it hurts him, I wouldn't be able to do it. It's all I can handle to hold his hand while they clean out the crap and redress the wound.

Based on the x rays, they think the bacteria hit what remains of his knee joint pretty damned badly. Taggert and Wilson agree he's got to have the knee replacement, but they can't do it until he's been on antibiotics for six weeks, or the new joint might get infected again.

He's in the hospital for this first go-round, before the knee surgery, for almost four weeks. It's half the time he spent here before, but in some ways it's twice as hard. Last time, he was in pain, and he couldn't move, and there were assorted complications—a couple minor infections, reactions to medications, that kind of thing, but he—he was never this wiped out. Even at first, he was never quite this bad, and I don't just mean physically.

Mentally, he seems pretty okay, if a little more forgetful, a little more spacy, but I figure that's from the narcotics he's still on. No, I'm more worried about his emotional status. He's not withdrawn, exactly—he tells everyone who comes how happy he is to see them, he asks after people's kids, and he started sleeping more normally, without many nightmares, once they took him out of isolation and let me join him in bed again. He still kisses me goodnight and tells me he loves me, then pulls me into his arms, every night, and I know he means it, and I know he appreciates the whole carepartner schtick as much as he ever did, but there's something off.

We're in that room again, the one with the kitchenette, and Sarah, she's cooking. Because that's what she does, and when she's worried, she does it even more. The nurses, the docs, the aides, fuck, even some of the other patients on 7 North are enjoying the fruits of her labors. Tim—okay, at first he's nauseated from the drugs, and just really, really sick, but she's really trying to tempt him, because he's lost weight and is losing more.

He eats the macaroni and cheese, nibbles on what Ruth calls the Cookies of Love, but I get the feeling it's not just the nausea. The look on his face, while he's trying to finish the broccoli and cheese casserole that's always been a favorite of his, it's not that he wants to puke, it's that he's not enjoying himself. I think of the blissful expression on his face, the last time we were in this hospital, when he didn't even remember who Sarah was, but she brought some cookies down, and he bit into one—I don't see anything like that, not anymore. And that's not Tim.

Billie tries to get him to play cards, get up a game of Hearts with her, Tim, and Ruth, and he plays for awhile, but his heart's not in it. He lets Ruth shoot the moon, and then he says he's tired, and they stop playing. Stuff like that keeps happening, stuff that shouldn't be alarming, given what he's going through, but somehow it is.

And, okay, part of it is, we haven't had sex. No blow jobs, hand jobs, or even fucking heavy petting—his hands haven't gone below my waist, except by accident, this whole time, and he hasn't been responding to anything I've done. I help out with his bath, and, well, it's not like it was last time—he's more mobile, but he's weaker. He seems more comfortable washing himself this time, which is a little odd. And while I never have any problems washing any part of his body—I'm ashamed by how much I still want him, sick and weak and in pain like he is—I can't help being a little more nervous than I was last time. And I think he's picked up on it. Of course he's picked up on it. But I don't understand it myself, not really, so it's not like I can tell him what's going on.

He hasn't been interested, and that's fine, that's cool—he's been through fucking hell, again, and he's still recovering, and it's been a lot harder on him than it was thirteen years ago, plus, hey, he's thirteen years older. He's 55, and he almost died, he's still on IV antibiotics, with a three port line almost directly into his heart, like I thought only cancer patients got, and if that means he's not up for anything other than cuddling, no pun intended, then it's no fucking big deal.

I think there's more to it than just physical exhaustion and age taking its toll—he looks at me sometimes, glances out of the corner of his eye, then looks away, when I'm handing him a washcloth, when he's washing his crotch, his soft cock, and I know he remembers. We both remember what it was like when he was in traction, how frustrated he was, how frustrated we both were, until that night Marilyn helped us out, and how we couldn't keep our hands off each other from then on.

From then on until now, actually. I mean, yeah, I guess things have slowed down a little over the years, because Tim's not the only one who's in his fifties, but even if we can only do it once a night now, we still do it just about every night, or every morning, especially if we've been apart. And we were apart for weeks before this shit came down. I feel guilty, because I want him so fucking badly, and I'm back to jerking off in the shower, because the last thing I want to do is make him feel worse. I can't do anything about morning wood but move away a little, and I'm afraid he's going to misinterpret that, but it's just not something I've felt sure enough about to bring up for discussion.

So, yeah, maybe the sex thing is more than just part of it. But I think it's more of a symptom than the underlying cause—fuck if I know for sure, though. And the underlying cause—something physical? Depression? Or, and this is the theory that scares the shit out of me, the theory I know can't be true but am totally obsessed by—what if he's finally just gotten tired of me? Fed up enough with the fucking Mother Hen act, or unable to see me as more than his caregiver, or just not in love with me anymore.

But I really don't think that's it. Not when I'm thinking clearly, anyway. And not when he strokes my cheek and tells me he loves me.

So Tim's in-patient for four weeks, then home for two, with me and assorted nurses taking care of him. The agency sends a couple home health aides, supposedly to help me out with shit like baths and lifts, but they're pretty worthless, so I send them back.

I thought Tim would be better, once we got him home, and he is, a little—he's more relaxed, I guess because he's no longer on display in the fishbowl. Because, you know, there weren't any FBI agents watching us this time, and once he was doing all right they kept the curtains closed, but even in a good hospital there's always someone coming in or out of the room, at the most inopportune moments.

It's hot and sunny the day we leave—not surprising, given it's Phoenix at the tail end of summer. I'm not letting Tim on a commercial prop plane, so I charter one, but it's still an uncomfortable flight, and he looks completely exhausted, even more than what passes for normal for him now, by the time I get him into bed at home. I give him a kiss on the forehead, tell him to get some sleep, and he smiles, just a little, and tells me he's glad to be home, and I think to myself, when's the last time I saw a real smile on his face? And I can't remember when that was.

There's more room in the bed at home, and he's sleeping pretty soundly, so I have plenty of time to move away in the mornings. He usually doesn't even wake up when I leave the bed. He's sleeping even more than he was the first few months after the stoning, when I used to call him Narcolepsy Man and he'd joke about making up for all the nights' rest he lost when he was a detective. When he's awake, sometimes it's like he's still asleep—he just sits there, passive, quiet, with none of his usual expansive gestures. He's not tense, not angry, not upset—he's just not all the way there, not his usual self.

He is a little more relaxed, glad to be back on home turf, at least for a couple weeks, until we go back down to Phoenix for the knee replacement, but it's not like I was hoping it would be. At least Jason managed to get Jones fired, and he's probably going to lose his license—that's one worry off my mind, anyway.

I've taken to sitting each morning, watching the sunrise while Tim sleeps, counting my breaths, trying to let go of all the other worries, trying to believe it'll be better soon, after the surgery, which I know has got to be on his mind too, even if he's not talking about it.

He needs it; there's no arguing that—the foot's healing, slowly but surely, and if that were the only problem they'd slap a walking cast on and Tim'd be back to the cane and the brace, but it's not the only problem; it's barely the tip of the iceberg.

The bedrest hasn't done much for his muscle tone, but the main problem is the knee joint, which was never great shakes to begin with after the beating it took—after the stoning—but it had some function to it, and that's gone now. He can bend it—shit, you could bend it any fucking way you wanted, because it's got no stability to it at all. He's got to wear a brace all the time now, to keep from causing more damage to what's left, just by turning over in bed. And when he gets up, it's on crutches, carefully; we're using the chair for anything more than short distances, and he hates that, but so far he's acquiesced.

Having more privacy hasn't changed the other thing. He takes his own showers now—waves me off when I offer to help, and how fucked is that? Because we've been showering together for thirteen years; it's part of our routine, part of our life together, and he looks guilty every time he says, no, that's okay, Bill, I can handle it; and I'm sure he can see how it makes me feel, much as I try to hide it, but neither one of us seems capable of actually talking about it. And I think that scares me more than anything, that it's turned into this thing, this thing that's between us that we don't talk about.

Ruth's noticed it too. It was with great reluctance that she headed back to school at the beginning of September—she wanted to take the semester off, but Tim told her absolutely not. Sarah went back earlier—she had to, or she'd lose her job—but she picked up on it too, I think because of the way he reacted (or didn't react) to her cooking. She told me before she got on the plane that she was worried about him, and she didn't mean physically. I told her I was worried, too.

Still, when I come to bed each night, when I get in next to him, he always wakes up, turns, tells me he loves me, and wraps those long arms of his around me. I'll kiss him, and he'll stroke my face and tell me again: I love you, Bill. I know, I'll tell him; I love you too. And it's the most truthful moment of our day.

So I let it go, try to just enjoy the fact that I've got him home for this short time before he goes back into the hospital for another week or ten days, following which he'll have a month that normally would be spent in a rehab facility, except for the fact that we've got enough money to bring the rehabbers to us.

The house is already designed for someone with a disability, not that we've ever referred to it that way, but now that's clearly what it is. Rob, ever the optimist, is convinced Tim'll walk better than ever once he heals, but Scott says there's an equal chance it won't work at all and they'll have to do another surgery to try to fuse it, so that the only movement he'll have will be in his hip and his ankle and foot.

When we talk about these possible outcomes, Tim's silent and still. Half the time he's looking out the window. When I try to talk to him about it, he says he's fine with whatever ends up happening, he's grateful just to be alive, and it's not like I can argue with that, so it's become something else we're ignoring.

And we keep ignoring it, and the other thing, right through the trip to Phoenix. He has the surgery, and then he's in that bad post-surgical place again, and the PTs, who pretty much left him alone up until this point, start in on him with a vengeance, first with that passive motion machine that looks so benign and hurts so fucking much. Then they're getting him up, working on him to actually put weight on his leg for the first time in over six weeks, never mind the fact that the foot's not all the way there yet, because now it does have a walking cast, thank you very much.

And it's not like the last time. He's vocal about the pain, for one thing, which is something I should be glad about, that he's not lying about it, like he used to. But it doesn't sound right, somehow.

They pull the central line a couple days before he leaves the hospital. It's a relatively minor procedure—doesn't seem to be one tenth as painful as when he had the chest tube pulled—but it feels like a major one to me, because I fucking hated that thing. I know Tim could tell, especially during the every third day sterile dressing change, but there wasn't anything I could say that wouldn't make me sound like more of a fucking insane person, so I kept my mouth shut. He took to wearing a t-shirt to bed weeks ago, and he keeps it up after the catheter's gone, but I have to keep myself from staring at the scar when he takes it off.

It hurts to watch him. I haven't seen him like this in years, and I think I blocked a lot of it out, what it was like that first year after the stoning, how fucking hard he worked, how much pain he was in, constantly, always pushing himself. He's not pushing as hard this time, and I should be happy about that, because he overdid it more than once last time, but it's another sign that he's not himself.

He's sitting in the living room right now, like he has been, like he does every morning. It's close to noon, and he's been sitting there, with a book on his lap off and on, but not really reading, since he got up.

"Hey, want some lunch?" I call from the kitchen.

"What?" he asks, startled. Was he asleep again?

"Lunch, detective. The meal that's traditionally served at midday."

"Lunch, right, of course," he says, making an effort.

"I was thinking I'd heat up some of Sara's lasagna."

"Sure, lasagna sounds good."

I bring it out to him, and he eats it, but he's obviously not thrilled about it.

"What's wrong—not hot enough?" I know that's not it—I can see it steaming—but I don't know what else to say.

"No, it's not that," he says, shrugging. "Just doesn't taste right. Nothing does. The antibiotics, I guess." He's off the IVs, but they've got him taking antibiotics by mouth still, as a precaution. It's supposed to stop next week, if everything looks all right.

"You're still losing weight, Tim."

"I know that," he snaps. "I'm eating it, Bill. It just doesn't taste right, okay?"

"I'm sorry. It's just, you know, Marilyn tells me protein's important for healing—"

"I know that, too." He sighs and looks out the window again. "I'm sorry I'm being such a pain in the ass."

"You're not." He looks at me and frowns. "You're not, Tim," I repeat, taking his hand. "I'm just worried about you. I love you, and I'm worried about you."

"Yeah, I know," he says unhappily. "I'm eating it, okay? So you don't have to worry."

"Okay. Because you know Joel'll be over in awhile for physical therapy."

"That's not something I'm likely to forget," he says wryly, and I see a glimpse of the old Tim, still in there somewhere. It's those glimpses that keep me going these days, because things are clearly not getting better. If anything, they're getting worse.

I try to talk to Scott Taggert, but he just tells me it's normal for Tim to have a little depression or anger after all he's gone through, and of course that makes perfect sense, but I keep thinking there's got to be more to it than that. I grab Joel one day after PT and ask him about it.

"He seems like he's doing fine to me, Bill. What is it exactly that you're worried about?"

"He's not enjoying things. He's sleeping too much. Do you think he's depressed, maybe?"

Joel shakes his head. "He's sleeping because he's healing. He needs that extra sleep, especially with everything I'm putting him through. Give it some time—it takes awhile to recover from a knee replacement, and Tim had a lot more than just that."

So I try again to let it go, just give it some time.

Kat calls, says she, Chelle, and Deej are coming out for a visit, that they want to jam with me.

"It'll be good to see you guys," I tell her. "How's the tour going?"

She snorts.

"What?"

"Trent's doing a fine job, but he's not you."

"Well, no—" I start, still a little weirded out by the fact that the Headstones' guitarist has been filling in for me. Hugh Dillon looks way too much like Joe to make that a comfortable thought.

"And he's not going to be available past next week—the Headstones are going back into the studio, and they need their lead guitarist," she adds pointedly.

"Is the label giving you shit? Because I told them, point blank, that I was not coming back until Tim was recovered."

"How's he doing? How are you doing?"

"Me? I'm fine."

"Don't bullshit me, Billy."

"I'm worried about him, okay? I know you're probably sick of hearing that—"

"No, I'm not sick of it—did it ever occur to you that we might be worried too? And not just about Tim?"

"You don't need to worry about me, Kat. I'll be fine."

"Okay, if you say so. Listen, we'll be there on Friday, okay? I think our flight gets in at one; I'll email you."

"I'll see you then."

I walk down to the pool, where Joel's got Tim in the water, working on his knee. "Gonna be a Jenifur reunion, end of the week," I tell him.

"They're coming out?" he grunts, then looks to Joel for permission to stop whatever torture he's doing so he can actually talk. "That's great. It'll be good to see them. Good for you to play with them." Joel reaches for his leg again, putting it into another stretch. "Ow! Fuck, Joel—"

"Come on, Tim, you know what I said—" Joel interrupts, loosening the stretch.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck that hurts. When are they getting here?"

"Friday, around one. You want to come to the airport with me, pick them up?"

"No, you go ahead. If I'm in the back seat, there wouldn't be any room for them and their stuff. Son of a bitch, Joel! Take them out for some lunch at Beaver Street Brewery, and I'll see you when you get back."

Lunch with my bandmates is great—good food, good conversation, steered carefully away from anything about Tim or about the tour. We talk about how Danny's doing in school, how Ruth likes her classes, and how Deeja wishes Trent weren't married, for which we give her as hard a time as we possibly can. I'm pretty sure she's making the whole crush on another happily married lead guitarist thing up, but it gets everyone laughing, so that's fine.

When we get home, they only give me a minute to say hello to Tim before they drag me out to the studio for what turns out to be an incredible jam session. I really do love playing with these women, playing this music. I don't know if I care that much about touring, about the fact that that's over, but this stuff—I make a mental resolution to keep this up, even after we've gone our separate ways as a band. Annual jam sessions or something.

We head back into the house after a few hours. I run into the bathroom for a couple bandaids, then meet them in the kitchen for refueling. I'm on my second bottle of water when Chelle gets this funny look on her face.

"What?" I ask her.

"Well, we were thinking," she starts, then hesitates and looks at Kat.

"You know the label's on us about the tour," Kat says. "They think we're dicking around, doing dates here and there, when we should just go out and play, finish what we started, finish our final tour already."

"They think I'm dicking around, is what they think," I mutter.

"Well, yeah," Deeja says. "But, you know, we told them—we know how important it's been for you to be home. We wouldn't have wanted you to be anywhere else. But we were wondering, now that the knee's done—"

"Don't even—" I say, getting up from where I was leaning against the counter.

"No, listen, Billy," Chelle interrupts, holding a hand up. "We're not talking six months here. We're talking five, six weeks. Home by Thanksgiving."

"No fucking way," I say simply, even though there's a part of me that's tempted. "Jesus, I can't believe you're even asking me this."

"No, if you can't, you can't, and we understand that," Chelle replies. "We just—we miss you, Billy."

"I think you should go," Tim says quietly from the couch, and everyone turns to stare.

"What? Are you fucking insane?" I ask, moving out into the living room.

"I think you should go," he repeats firmly. "It'd be good for you."

I resist the urge to throw something. "You guys mind excusing us for a few minutes?" I ask, and they exit with embarrassed looks, telling me they'll be back in the studio. I wait until I hear the front door close, and then I go over to the couch.

"You want to tell me what the fuck is going on?"

He readjusts the pillow under his knee. "You love to tour, Bill. I think you should go. I'll be fine."

"I'm not leaving you."

"What, you're going to stay here the rest of your life? Never leave Flagstaff? Give me a fucking break." His words are angry, but he's not doing much, just sitting there.

"I didn't say—jesus, Tim! Why are you pushing me away?"

"I'm not," he says, in this bizarre conversational tone, like we're just talking about the weather, and that pisses me off even more.

"The hell you're not! I'm surprised you haven't asked me to sleep in Billie's room!"

That, at least, gets a reaction. He sits up straight and flings his arm out. "What? That's not fair, Bill—how could you even think something like that?"

"Why the fuck shouldn't I think it? You won't shower with me, you barely touch me, and now you're telling me I should leave town and not come back for a month and a half? What else am I supposed to think?"

He makes a frustrated noise, and I know if he were more mobile, he'd be up and pacing. Instead, he just punches his leg with his fist—his good leg.

I sit down next to him on the couch, even though there's a part of me that wants to punch him myself, and not just his leg. He takes my hand.

"I love you, Bill," he says seriously. "Nothing is going to change that. But we're stuck in some sort of bad groove here, and you're fucking miserable, and this is the perfect opportunity for you to get out of here and do something you and I both know you love."

"I don't love touring the way I love you, idiot," I tell him, exasperated.

"I know that," he retorts. "But we're headed—fuck, I don't know where we're headed, but I don't like it. And this feels right to me, you going on tour. Finishing what you started." He stares unhappily at our hands. "I don't want you to leave either. But I think you need to. I think we both need it."

"For six weeks?"

"It'll give me time to get back on my feet—figuratively as well as literally. I don't need you the way I did up until now. I can handle myself, handle the PT, get some work done for the Fund, keep myself busy. And it's not as if we won't talk—we'll talk every day, like we always do."

"I'm worried about you."

He snorts. "That's not news, Bill."

"No, I mean—I'll tell you what," I say, astounded I'm even thinking it, much less saying it. "Maybe I should go. Maybe I will. But on one condition."

"What's that?"

"You'll see someone while I'm gone."

"What do you mean, see someone?" he asks, and his voice is grey and dull again, and I get a hunch that maybe this is the right thing to do.

"A therapist. You could go to Laura, maybe. Or that guy Dirk, from your sangha."

"You mean Derek?"

"Dirk, Derek, whoever. I just think you should see someone."

His lips twitch. "Derek's a computer programmer, Bill. Thomas is the therapist."

"I always get those two confused. What do you say?"

He looks out at the mountains for a minute, then meets my eyes and nods. "All right. I'll call Thomas. But you've got to keep your end of the bargain."

"Fine. I'll go. It'll suck, and you're an asshole, but I'll go."

He nods again. "Good." He reaches out and touches my face, just with the tips of his fingers. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, so am I. Too bad I don't have a fucking clue what I'm apologizing for."

He smiles a little. "That's okay—neither do I."

And things are just a tiny bit better, the next few days, until I leave. Nothing's really changed, but there's a little less tension, a little more warmth. He eats a little better, makes a little more effort to move around on his own, and I hover a little less, I think.

The day I leave, though—the tension's back. I don't want to go, although I can see, just a little, that it might not be the worst idea he's ever come up with. Six weeks is a long time, though.

He can't drive me to the airport—we've got hand controls on the jeep, but he can't bend his leg that much for that long without some serious pain; he has to ride in the back seat when we go in to see Luke Begay—so I take a taxi, which is a first for when he's home. He pushes himself up off the couch and onto his crutches to see me to the door, and it's painful to watch him. He's thinner than any time since Church Canyon, and he's kind of pasty looking, and he's struggling, and I really don't want to leave him.

"It'll be fine," he says, cutting me off before I've opened my mouth. "I'll be fine. I promise."

"It won't be fine. It'll suck."

"Yeah, it will," he acknowledges. "But it'll still be fine. And you'll have a good time when you're on the stage."

"I'll only be onstage a couple hours a night."

"More like three, I'm guessing."

"What the fuck ever, Timothy—the point is—"

He leans more on his good leg so he can free his hand long enough to put a finger on my lips. "I know what the point is, dumbass. I'll miss you too."

I sigh. "I'll call you from the hotel."

"I'll be here. I love you, Bill."

"Yeah, I know." I reach up and run my fingers over his face. "I love you too, Tim. I must, or I wouldn't feel this fucking bad, leaving."

He smiles sadly. "You'd better go. The cab's waiting, and you don't want to miss your flight."

I snort. "Yeah, there's a risk of that at Pulliam Regional Airport, because it takes so long to check in."

"You might get caught in traffic," he offers, and I know he just wants to get it over with, my leaving, and I can understand that, so I nod.

"Sure, maybe there's an accident on 180. Or a fire—do you smell any smoke?"

He smiles. "I'll talk to you tonight, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." I kiss him, just a brief brush of lips, and then I walk out the door.

Part III

The flight from Flag to Vegas is the same as always—noisy, poorly ventilated, cramped, and bumpy. If I'd pushed it, I could have probably persuaded the label to send a jet, but by this point I'm pretty used to the prop plane, and at least the flight's short, as is my layover at McCarran.

Las Vegas. Where I met Tim, thirteen years ago. As we take off, I look for the MGM Grand out the window. When the flight attendant offers me a cocktail, it's difficult to just ask for some coffee. Especially when the guy sitting next to me asks for some scotch. I take the coffee, but the scotch smells really fucking good.

Once I get to LA, make it through the limo ride to studio, and start rehearsing with Deeja, Kat, and Chelle, things get a little better. I go to a meeting with Deej, and then I call Tim, who's hurting some from PT, but at least is willing to talk about it for once.

Next day, I call him before the concert.

"I fired my physical therapist," he tells me.

"What? What the fuck did you do that for?"

"Because he was a jerk who was making things worse, all right?" he replies angrily. "Look, I went in to see Luke Begay today, and he called Scott and Rob, and we all conferenced on it, and Rob's sending someone down tomorrow."

"Sending someone from Banff?"

"Yeah. She's going to bunk down at the studio."

"She is, huh?" I can't keep a totally ridiculous touch of jealousy out of my voice. Fuck, I'm losing it.

"What, you want me to put her up in a hotel in town?" he asks reasonably. "It makes sense, Bill."

"How long is she staying?"

"Probably a month or two. Apparently I need a lot of work," he adds wryly.

"Is that so? What does Thomas think? You met with him yesterday, right?"

Silence for a few seconds. Fuck, my mouth really gets away from me sometimes.

"He thinks I need some work, too," Tim says quietly. "And so do I."

"Listen, I'm sorry—"

"No, it's all right. It's—there's a lot I need to work out."

Awkward silence again, because I haven't got a fucking clue what I can say to that. "Anything you want to talk about?" is what I come up with eventually.

"Not yet. Later, yeah—when you get home, I think. But not yet."

"Not till then, huh?"

"Probably not. It'll be better—I don't want to have that conversation over the phone, you know?"

"I don't like the way that sounds," I say before I can help myself. Fuck, when did I get this insecure about the most rock-solid good thing I've ever had?

"Don't be an idiot. I love you."

I sigh. "Keep telling me that. It helps."

"I love you, Bill."

"You sleeping okay?"

"What do you think?" he says.

"Yeah, me too."

"Where were you earlier, rehearsal?"

"Went to a meeting with Deeja."

"You okay?" he asks with careful concern.

"No, asshole, I'm not. But I'm not drinking, tempting though it may be."

"I love you."

"Yeah, I know." I take a drag of my cigarette, a vice I haven't managed to quit, not entirely, although I only smoke when I'm on tour. "I miss you. I am so fucking pissed at you, and I miss you so fucking much."

"I know. I'm sorry."

And that's pretty much the way it goes, the next couple weeks. Well, the new PT gets there—turns out her name is Paige—and she starts kicking Tim's ass. He's pretty closed-mouthed about his sessions with her, and even more so about his sessions with Thomas. I try to let it go, and usually I succeed. I'm doing some meditating, something I've had varying amounts of success with over the years—for now, it seems to be helping.

Three weeks into the tour, I'm starting to notice a difference. He sounds more himself. I don't know any other way to put it. It's not anything specific, anything concrete—he's just sounding more and more like himself, and I refuse to see that as anything other than a positive development. That makes me sound like the fucking shrink I saw after Joe, but that's been on my mind lately, too, so what do you expect? Fuck, if this doesn't work, this time away, I'm going to need some therapy of my own, because I couldn't take any more of what was going on at home without something dangerous happening.

I have a talk with Ruth about this time—she's just been home on fall break—and she says the same thing. She says he won't talk to her about what's going on, either, "but he's coming back from wherever he's been. He's coming back to us, Bill." The relief I feel, hearing those words, is indescribable.

I'm reassured by these developments, but it doesn't keep me from missing him, from sleeping like shit, from smoking more than I should and wishing I could drink. Then, one night after a concert in Massachusetts—and believe me, the fact that we're back in New England is not lost on me—we finally talk about what's been going on.

"I had a good session with Thomas today," he says hesitantly.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"Yeah." He sighs. "Bill—"

I wait. Nothing. "What is it, Tim?"

"It's just, the thing is—" he blows out some air. "It was different this time. You were different."

"So were you."

"Yeah, I know. Was it really that disgusting?"

What? I sit upright. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Was it the smell? Because I know it was pretty bad, the first few days—"

"I didn't give a shit about the smell," I tell him, which isn't entirely the truth, but it's more complicated than that. "What are you getting at?"

"Right, right, you didn't give a shit. Then why did you hate the dressing changes so much? It didn't use to bother you. None of it did. But this time, you could barely stand it. You didn't mind helping with some stuff, like baths, but when it came to the dressing changes, you couldn't stand it. You were disgusted, admit it."

Fuck. "Jesus, Timothy, you are so fucking stupid sometimes," I mutter, leaning back against the bed again, and he snorts.

"If it wasn't that, what was it?"

"The first time—shit, after Church Canyon, I just soaked up everything they taught me to do, but I didn't do much thinking about it—they thought I could do it, and I wanted to help, any way I could, so I did it. But I'm not a fucking nurse, Tim." As soon as the words are out, I wish I could take them back.

"So you just didn't want to do it anymore? Figured it wasn't in the job description?"

I wince at the pain in his voice. "Fuck, no, it wasn't anything like that! I just meant—shit. Give me a second here to tell you without jumping to any stupid conclusions, all right? Jesus, Tim, I would do anything for you. It's not fucking about that, you hear me?"

"What's it about then?" he asks quietly. "Why did you do everything you could to avoid it?"

"Because I knew what the stakes were, asshole!" I shout, standing up. "I knew—fuck, I knew too much. I—after the stoning, I was ignorant. They talked to me about DIC and sepsis and necrotizing fasciitis and bone grafts and septic arthritis and multi-organ system failure, and they were just words to me, just big-ass scary sounding words that didn't really mean anything, especially not at first, which was when the danger was greatest."

I start pacing, reaching for my cigarettes. "I mean, sure, I heard what they were telling me—if you developed an infection, a bad one, that got into your blood, it could kill you. So it was important to use good technique when doing your pin care. But this time—"

I take a ragged breath, crumpling the pack, which is empty, and dropping it on the floor. "Fuck. This time, I saw it. I saw what it did to you, and I saw how it almost killed you, and I knew if I fucked up," I start pacing again, "if I dropped something or touched something with my sterile glove or forgot to wash my fucking hands, that might be what killed you. You had that line, that line that went straight to your fucking heart, and if I messed up and that line got infected, I could kill you! I wasn't disgusted, you dumbass, I was fucking terrified!"

I find a new pack and light up, willing my hands not to shake, then go back and sit down on the edge of the bed, my hand on my forehead.

"Jesus, Bill, why didn't you tell me?"

"I couldn't. You were in such bad shape—I was so scared, for weeks I was so fucking scared, but you didn't need to know that; that was the last thing you needed to hear." I swallow, then take a drag on my cigarette. "And then, even when we knew you were out of the woods, pretty much, you were so down, so weak, so sick still, and in such pain—"

"You still should have told me."

"Fine," I say, a little sharply, because we both know there's more to it than that. "I should have told you, and I didn't. I apologize."

He sighs. "Apology accepted. I'm sorry, Bill." And he sounds so sincere, so normal, that I can hardly believe it. He sounds like Tim, and it makes me smile in spite of myself. Fuck, he sounds good.

"Okay, we're both sorry. Can I come home now?"

He laughs. "That would be great, but I think you'd better stay with the tour—it's almost over, after all."

"Fuck that—it's barely half done. Two and a half more weeks of shitty sleep and boring hotel rooms and screaming fans and missing you still to go. And our anniversary's next week, and you're an asshole for making me go on this thing and miss it."

"Two and a half more weeks playing songs you love with people you love, before you won't do it ever again," he reminds me. "Enjoy it, okay? Let yourself enjoy it."

"I will. I am, for those few hours a night. Fuck, Tim, we're really on these days, really playing well. When I think about it—yeah, it's going to be rough, playing the last couple shows."

"Wish I could be there. I'm sorry about our anniversary."

"Yeah, me too."

"We'll have to make a trip after the first of the year, maybe. Hawaii again—someplace warm, anyway."

"Warm sounds good." I flash on our honeymoon. "But cold is good, too. Firelight, you know?"

"Yeah, I know," he says, and I can hear his smile, and I feel even better than I did a minute ago, and I take a deep breath, putting my cigarette out.

"And as far as our last couple shows go," I tell him, "you will be there. We've already decided, Jenifur's last concert ever is going to be in Vegas, New Year's Eve. The label wanted New York, but fuck 'em. We'll play New York between Thanksgiving and Christmas, as a stand-alone date, not part of the tour, and then it's home to our families until New Years."

"Sounds good."

"And you're coming to New York with me."

"I wouldn't miss it."

A few seconds of silence again, but this time it's not awkward, not really, and then I yawn, and he laughs again. Fuck, that is such a good sound.

"It's good to hear you laughing," I tell him.

"Yeah, it's good to be laughing," he says simply. "Thanks, by the way."

"What for?"

"Seeing how I was, and making me do something about it."

"Fuck, Tim—" My voice breaks.

"Yeah, I know." He sighs. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"No, it's okay, it's just—I love you. I miss you."

"I miss you," he says. "I love you. I'll see you soon. Two and a half weeks—it's not that long."

"It's fucking forever," I mutter. "No, it's not that long; I know, I know." And he tells me he loves me again, and then we hang up, and I sleep better than I have in months.

Part IV

The tour's finally over, except for the last couple dates, and those aren't for weeks. I leave Miami on the earliest flight I could get, still half asleep, because last night's concert ran late. As soon as I get on the plane, though, I wake up, and it's not the coffee that does it, it's the fact that I'm finally on my way home.

I limit myself to one brief call from the skyphone letting him know we're on time to Vegas, and another from my cell just before we take off for Flag. When the plane finally touches down, I'm up and out of my seat so fast the flight attendant's giving me the evil eye. I make it off the plane first, down the stairs and into the terminal, and as I walk through the door at the gate I can see him already, standing there. He's wearing a brown cable kn