The slatted blinds had been lowered, and a rectangle of barred light lay across the pale green sheets of Fyke’s hospital bed. An IV drip stood by the bed, a plastic line snaking into the sheets on the far side of the bed. The room smelled of disinfectant and soap and cigarette smoke. The room was large, floored in aged teak, with bamboo walls and a roof made to look like palm thatch. The pool house furniture had all been removed, and now there was nothing in it but a shiny new hospital bed, a rack of monitors, and three cane chairs arranged around the bed. Fyke lay on his back, the sheet pulled up to just below his throat. His thick arms lay outside the sheets. His hands were wrapped in white bandages. The bed had been sized for Asian bodies, so Fyke’s massive frame overflowed it in all directions. His eyes were closed, and his chest was rising and falling in a deep and even rhythm, his lips half open. He had lost weight since the old days, when they had run through the shattered streets of Pristina, carrying a dead arms dealer and laughing like drunken loons.
