The one I’m sitting in is the least comfortable of the two Les’s room has been allotted. Peggy has the one right beside the bed. Every fifteen minutes or so, I use one excuse or another to take a walk. Les is hanging in there. He’s not the same old Les, though. The disorientation, the drugs, the damn trauma of being shot are all working against him. He thrashes around. He complains a lot, and I’m not sure I’ve ever heard Les Hacker complain before this. He pretty much knows who we are, but when Peggy and I look at each other, and we’re sure he’s not looking at us, I am certain that we do not brim with optimism. It’s a ten-minute walk to the nearest nicotine zone, so I’m doing more walking than sitting. I think I’d rather walk ten miles than spend an uninterrupted hour in a hospital room. Out on the deck, it’s turned cooler again. I’m tucked into a corner, out of the wind, when I hear my name being called. “Willie! Hot damn, don’t you know that shit’ll kill you?”
