Chapter 4“Talk to me, Russel. Look at me,” Finn demanded.
I turned, and suddenly, I could. “Should you be standing up?”
He was stealthy, Finn Shea, making it to the foot of my bed without a cacophony of sound, the rattle and squeak of wheels one would expect from an I.V. pole or the swoosh of wires and tubes connected to him as he dragged them across tile. I hadn’t heard a single warning grunt, nary a groan, not even flopping noises, despite the size of his bare feet—no more sock—and his commando state—still no underwear—quite evident through the thinness of his hospital gown with good lighting behind him. I wondered if it was open back there.
“Probably not,” he said. “It’s a miracle!” For someone who didn’t have a TV, he did a pretty good televangelist.
“Sit down.” I moved my good leg
