When Demarco awoke, he was groggy. Jack was there, at his bedside in the hospital, looking down at him.
"Is that you, Auntie Em?"
"How do you feel?"
"Like I've been stampeded by a herd of drag queens."
Jack smiled, happy to see that Demarco had not lost his sense of humor. "Probably a little less severe than that," he said. "You were shot."
"Shot? Where?"
He pointed to the bandage on Demarco's shoulder.
Demarco glanced down at the gauze. "How? Why?"
"We're not exactly sure."
"Where's that little shit, Abir?"
"Gone. He disappeared in the chaos."
"How? He was wearing a red hoodie."
"Yeah... we have that. He ditched it."
Demarco shook his head, dismissing the waves of dizziness attempting to intervene.
"You've been in and out. They gave you a mild anesthetic... painkillers... and twenty-one stitches—deltoid, just below your shoulder."
"I may need a bedpan."
"Relax, you were just grazed. I was worried though. You went out. I've never seen that happen before."
"Well, pardon me if I don't offer an encore."
Jack looked at him, saying nothing. There was genuine concern there... but something else... something tender.
"Stop it," Demarco said.
"What?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Would you rather me look at you another way."
He was armed with another quip and decided against it. "No."
"Good. Because I like looking at you this way."
Demarco averted his eyes and Jack sat on the bed next to him... and though Demarco was looking away he could feel the comfortable weight of the man close. Jack placed his hand on Demarco's leg and gave it a firm squeeze. "I like it when you're docile," he said.
"What are you not telling me?"
Jack sighed and stood again, walking toward the hospital room window. After a moment he turned and said, "We're concerned that you may have been the target, not Abir."
Demarco took a moment to digest this. "Oh... well, I'm not sure what to say?"
"Twice at a loss for words. My lucky day."
