On one wall was a huge crucifix, very realistic, with great nails in the body, the crown of thorns huge and ugly, the wounds running with brightly painted blood. Brother Bernard, the infirmarian, came and went, seeming to follow his smile in and out of the room. Dave Williams looked like a monk himself, a sleeping monk, lying there with a white sheet to his chin, his head shaved, wearing a white turbanlike bandage, a pale face on the white pillow, out of the world. Bernard looked at Casey when he asked when he could speak to Dave. “He’s in a coma, son.” Brother Bernard’s specialty in what he called the world had been brain surgery. “Here we do soul surgery.” “So you’re an MD.” “For my sins. I was on the staff of the Mayo Clinic.” “How long have you been a monk?” “Not long enough.” “Did you have to shave Dave’s head?” “I wanted to make him feel at home.” Bernard kept shining lights in Dave’s eyes, humming as he did so. “How long do comas last?”
