The buzzing came to an unsettling halt. Through the curtains came an upset-looking Risalda with a full IV bag. He opened his mouth to speak--to thank her, to say anything--but he couldn't find the words to say. Frustration filled him, and he flushed and scowled as she left wordlessly. Something, be it the bullet wound or the narcotics, was stealing all the important things he was supposed to say. Everything that would make anything better. He scrubbed his face with the working hand as he tried to remember if Risalda had actually walked or if he had imagined it. Suddenly, the curtains were pulled open again, and Noah sat upright in the cot.
"Evanne," he said, "Evelyn. Thank God you're here. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I said. I didn't mean it, I swear. I--" He chocked back the word vomit while Evanne placed her daughter--their daughter--in the cot beside him. He relaxed a bit into his own cot when Evanne fixed his blankets around him, and he couldn't help the dopey, drugged-up grin that spread across his face.
"I'm glad you came back," he said.