Crippled, Richard remembered. His neck looked broken.

“Dylan… ” he began.

“Your brother’s alive. At least for now,” the policeman cut in. His eyes reverted to their arctic shade of blue, and his cheeks went from flab to granite. He sounded pissed off, but he wasn’t pissed off at Richard. He was pissed off at Dylan.

“Excuse me.” Like a leaf on the first winds of winter, a cool voice blew the cop out of Richard’s line of sight. A woman in white replaced him, a nurse of forty or so. She, too, smiled at Richard, a real smile, the kind mothers save for favorite sons. “My name is Sara.”

Richard liked her voice. It was warm, like she thought he was okay. He tried to smile at her and failed.

“Your brother is fine,” she said kindly.

Fine. Going to be fine. Fine meant nothing. Fine was a cover-up, pabulum for kiddies.

The fear that had shortened his patience with the policeman jerked his jaws together and locked them.

“Is he crippled?” Richard demanded, nearly lisping through clenched teeth.

“No, no. Just a concussion,” the nurse assured him quickly. “He’s going to be just fine.” She reached out as if to pat him on the head, then snatched her hand back. Richard was pretty sure his teeth were bared, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have bitten her if she hadn’t pulled away.

Their “fine” was not his “fine.”

“Is he crippled?” he yelled, trying to sit up and barely succeeding in lifting his head. “His neck looked broken. Goddamn it, is he going to be a cripple?”