“This guy, with his neck; I want to make sure he’s back before we medicate for pain.”

Then they splashed away and there was more motion and then they came back.

“He’s breathing well, sats are good, rhythm is good.”

“Okay, let’s rouse him, get him to raise his head, squeeze a finger, swallow. And wait for the eyelids; the littlest muscles are always the last to come back. Who’s got the Narc keys?”

“Got them right here. I’ve got everything today.”

“Sign out twenty-five milligrams of Demerol and give it IV.”

The voices faded, the shapes acquired edges, then fluttered away, and tile-lined the walls and was dotted with stainless steel, and it all shimmered in and out of focus. Latex fingers carried a slender plastic syringe with green markings across his vision. A fluorescent light hovered overhead, and from its center materialized the face of a blue-gowned young woman with white-blond hair. She had serious gray eyes and copper freckles on her cheeks and she smiled.

He enjoyed the colors of her face and her hair. He found them vital, feline. He thought: a happy lynx.

“Hello there,” said the happy lynx. “Can you squeeze my finger?”

He squeezed the cool finger in his hand.

“Good,” she said. “Now can you raise your head?”

A stiff sensation laced tight up his middle and warned him not to move, but he made the effort and got his head up a little. Which was a mistake. Oh, wow.

“Take it easy.” The nurse patted his forearm with long, cool fingers. “You’ve got a few stitches in your belly.”

Pain jogged his memory and he tried to talk but no spit came. All he managed to get out was a single cotton word: “ ’peration.”

“That’s right. You’ve had an emergency operation that went just fine and now you’re in the recovery room,” she said.