“The way you are holding yourself when you walk-you’ve damaged a rib,” Guyot said. “Maybe you’ve broken it. Maybe more than one.”

Bosch thought of the small, thin bones he had just seen beneath the acacia trees.

“There’s nothing you can do for a rib, broken or not,” he said.

“I can tape it. You’ll breathe a hell of a lot easier. I can also take care of that wound.”

Bosch relented.

“Okay, Doc, you get out your black bag. I’m going to get my other shirt.”

Inside Guyot’s house a few minutes later, the doctor cleaned the deep scratch on the side of Bosch’s chest and taped his ribs. It did feel better, but it still hurt. Guyot said he could no longer write a prescription but suggested Bosch not take anything more powerful than aspirin anyway.

Bosch remembered that he had a prescription bottle with some Vicodin tablets left over from when he’d had a wisdom tooth removed a few months earlier. They would smooth out the pain if he wanted to go that way.

“I’ll be fine,” Bosch said. “Thanks for fixing me up.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Bosch pulled on his good shirt and watched Guyot as he closed up his first-aid kit. He wondered how long it had been since the doctor had used his skills on a patient.

“How long have you been retired?” he asked.

“Twelve years next month.”

“You miss it?”

Guyot turned from the first-aid kit and looked at him. The tremor was gone.

“Every day. I don’t miss the actual work-you know, the cases. But it was a job that made a difference. I miss that.”

Bosch thought about how Julia Brasher had described homicide work earlier. He nodded that he understood what Guyot was saying.

“You said there was a crime scene up there?” the doctor asked.

“Yes. I found more bones. I’ve got to make a call, see what we’re going to do. Can I borrow your phone? I don’t think my cell will work around here.”