He pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat.
We didn’t speak for a long moment.
He just looked at me.
And I looked back.
“How are you feeling?” he asked finally.
I laughed.
It came out wet and broken.
“Like I just sold fourteen pieces of myself.”
His jaw tightened.
“You didn’t sell anything.”
“Didn’t I?”
“No.” His voice was firm. “You’re giving me something I can’t get any other way. That’s not selling. That’s?—”
He stopped.
Looked away.
“That’s what?” I pressed.
He didn’t answer right away.
Just sat there, his hands folded in his lap, his shoulders tense.
“That’s more than I deserve,” he said finally.
I stared at him.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
He looked at me again.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—” I gestured vaguely at the room. “Why are youhere? You didn’t have to come. The contract doesn’t say you have to sit in waiting rooms or show up in recovery rooms or?—”
“Because it’s my responsibility,” he said.
His voice was steady.
But his eyes?—
His eyes said something else.
“Your responsibility,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“That’s it?”
