The room is quiet except for the hum of a swamp cooler wedged into the room's only window. Little streams of light peak around the edges of the pull down blinds. As my eyes adjust, I see a small desk with a chair, a couple of overloaded bookshelves, and a coat rack. I sit up, my shoulder aching, but not enough to keep me down. Swinging my legs off the edge of the ancient cot I am on is a struggle. I have not felt this weak since the day of my fall. I head for the door, anxious to find Lilly, afraid of where I may have ended up. I open the only door and squint as bright light penetrates the room. I walk into the light, accepting that I am at the mercy of whoever is there. To my surprise, and disappointment, there is no one. The room has the too sterile feel of a hospital waiting room, minus the nurses, or the music piped in through decades old speakers. There are pictures of old California missions in black and white and a small, uncomfortable looking bench-pressed against a wall. Two other doors flanked the one I had come through.
