“The good news is that it’s a clean cut. You probably won’t need surgery.”

This is good news.

Anything is good news when you’re on morphine.

My hand is resting on a silver suture tray and covered in a cocoon of white gauze that makes my arm look like an oversized Q-tip. The doctor examines the bandage, then puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “You’re not a piano player, are you?”

I ignore him and turn toward the cop sitting on the red plastic chair next to the bed. He’s talking to Diane, asking her if she knows of anyone who might want to hurt me. He wants to know if I have any enemies.

Diane is staring at the walls, the floor, her hands, anywhere but at him. There are tears on her cheeks, and when she speaks her voice is soft.

“No one,” she says. “Of course not.”

The cop looks at me. “How about you? Anyone out there holding a grudge?”

“A grudge?” Diane looks from me to the cop, then back. “Over what?”

The cop stares at me, waiting.

“No,” I say. “I don’t think so.”

The cop scribbles something in his notebook.

“What is he talking about?” Diane asks. “Does someone want to hurt you?”

“No.” I shake my head. “No one.”

I can tell Diane wants to say something else, but instead she just frowns and looks away.

Nobody says anything for a while. Finally, Diane straightens in her chair and says, “So, what’s the next step?” She reaches for my good hand, squeezes, then turns back to the cop. “How long before you find these people?”

The cop looks up, and to his credit he doesn’t smile, but I can see it in his eyes.