When they were assured she wasn’t in any immediate danger, a thick-lidded man decked out in greens wheeled her to a night room and settled her into a bed by the window, a roommate snoring behind drawn curtains. He and another younger man with a smile and an anchor tattooed on one muscular arm took her temperature, her blood pressure, a sample of arterial blood (“This one is gonna hurt,” and it did), and prepped her left arm for an IV. The ER interns had already taped an array of thin monitoring nodes to her torso, and these were now plugged into a flat weighty transmitter pocketed in her gown. Sherry stood by the window, watching them. “What floor are we on?” Katt managed. They told her. It was the same floor Conner was on, but she had no idea how far away he was. “Conner?” This to Sherry. “I’ll figure out where he is,” her friend said. The lidded man spoke up. “Don’t be thinking about a walk now. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.” Then Doctor Bein came in.
