He could not decipher its form or meaning. A frail thing there under white sheet and blue blanket, thin arms arranged outside. Heavy eyelids more stuck than shut, cheek bones poking, pale lips drawn back in a death’s head grin, a body so frail it seemed even the blanket pressed it flat. And tubes, bandages, steel and plastic—new organs these—jars and drainage bags. He looked frantically for signs of life, stared, stared, saw finally a slow wearied rise and fall of breast no plumper than a boy’s. He thought of the body of Frank Lombard and wondered, Where is the connection? Then realized he saw both through mist, his eyes damped and heavy.“She’s under heavy sedation,” the nurse whispered, “but she’s coming along just fine. Dr. Bernardi is waiting for you in the Surgeons’ Lounge.”He searched for something he could kiss, a naked patch of skin free of tubes, needles, straps, bandages. All he wanted was to make a signal, just a signal. He bent to kiss her hair, but it was wire beneath his lips.“I mentioned it,”
