“We’ll do it in the bathroom at the airport. There’s some antibiotics in the first-aid kit in the pack. I confirmed you for a flight to Honolulu that leaves in an hour. From there you go to Guam, then to someplace called Truk. That’s where this doctor is supposed to meet you. I’ve got it all written down. There was an e-mail address at the bottom of the letter. I sent him a message to expect you tomorrow.”

“But my car, my apartment, my stuff.”

“Your apartment is a pit and I put your stuff worth keeping in a ministorage. I’ve got the pink slip for your Camaro. Sign it over to me. I’ll sell it and send you the money.”

“You were pretty fucking sure I’d want to do this.”

“What choice do you have?”

Jake parked the Land Rover in short-term parking, shouldered the pack, and led Tucker into the international terminal. They checked the pack and found a rest room near Tucker’s departure gate.

“I can do this myself,” Tucker said.

Jake Skye was peering over the door into the stall where Tucker was preparing to remove his bandages and, finally, the catheter. A line of businessmen washed their hands at a line of lavatories while trying not to notice what was going on behind them in the stall.

“Just yank it,” Jake Skye said.

“Give me a minute. I think they tied a knot inside it.”

“Don’t be a wuss, Tucker. Yank it.”

The businessmen at the sinks exchanged raised eyebrows and one by one broke for the rest room door.

Jake said, “I’m going to give you to five, then I’m coming over the stall and yanking it for you. One, two…”

A rodeo cowboy at the urinals hitched up his Wranglers, pulled his hat down, and made a bowlegged beeline for the door to get on a plane to someplace where this sort of thing didn’t happen.