waiting list for stem cells is even longer than for organs. Paul will have to remain on dialysis until a donation becomes available. We have kits -- expensive ones, mind you -- that would enable him to do it at home. Three times a week. The process usually takes three to four hours."
"My God."
"It can be hard. But there are many good support groups available for dialysis patients."
John wondered how long Paul would last in a support group. About five minutes, maybe.
"But we're getting ahead of ourselves," Dr. Stramm said. "First, we have to get through the next twenty-four hours. We can worry about finding a donor later." She leaned over to place one hand over his. "When was the last time you slept?"
"I don't remember."
"You should go home, get some rest."
"I want to stay here. Just in case. Is that all right?"
"Hospital policy is --" She waved off the demurral. "Sure," she said, and stood. "I'll show you to the ICU waiting room. And I'll have an orderly get you a pillow and blanket."
"May I . . . see Paul?"
"He's still out from the anesthesia. He'll probably sleep through the night. But you can stop by for a few minutes, if you like."
She took him to ICU. Paul's bed stood in the center of an imposing hodgepodge of EEG and EKG monitors, IV stands, a tangle of equipment he didn't recognize -- the hemodialysis machine, he guessed. He had to turn sideways to edge up to the bed.
The sheets covered most of the damage, but Paul's face was horribly visible. The skin around both eyes was purplish-black and swollen. Multiple contusions marred his cheeks. Tubes ran from his nose and mouth.
John preferred the tattoo.
He stared at Paul's unconscious form for several minutes. He thought he should probably be crying, but it seemed the place inside him that housed his sorrow had gone empty, drained. After a while, he left the ICU and went to the waiting room. The promised pillow and blanket lay on a couch.
A wall clock displayed the time -- just after four a.m. The after-hours hospital quiet unnerved him. Most of the overhead lights had been darkened. A passing nurse stopped in and asked him if he wouldn't rather go home. He would have, actually, but he couldn't. Marie wouldn't have.
He managed about four hours of fitful sleep on the waiting room couch, and awoke sore and scratchy-eyed. Activity on the floor had picked up, many comings and goings in the ICU. A nurse at the station desk told him that Paul's condition had not changed.
He was heading back to the waiting room when he saw Keith, wheelchair bound, guiding himself down the corridor. Keith stopped when he saw John and glanced to either side, as if debating whether he should turn around or not. He held his ground as John approached.
Bandaged from the eyebrows up, Keith bore bruises and contusions similar to Paul's, though less severe. A long red slash, stitched shut, marked his jaw line and cut through the tail of his lizard tattoo. He wore a gray hospital gown.
He said, "I, ah, was coming to see Paul."
"He's doing all right for now, they tell me. But he hasn't woken up yet."
"Oh."
They faced each other in the middle of the corridor. Passersby flowed around them.
"That's a nasty scar," John said.
"One of them got me with a switchblade. And my head hurts. Concussion." He tapped the arms of his wheelchair. "They want me to use this, in case I get dizzy or something."
"Did the doctors say when you can go home?"
"Around noon. I wanted to check on Paul before I left."
"You can wait for him, if you like." John extended a hand in the direction of the waiting room.
"Ah . . ." Keith's brow wrinkled. "I can maybe check back in a few hours."
"All right." John stepped past him.
Keith reached out to touch his arm. "Mr. Griffin, it wasn't my idea to go there. It was Paul's. And like I told that cop, I don't know what he uploaded. He wouldn't say."
Still bleary, John had forgotten all about Paul's little stunt. Eric was no doubt waiting for a phone call. "All
"My God."
"It can be hard. But there are many good support groups available for dialysis patients."
John wondered how long Paul would last in a support group. About five minutes, maybe.
"But we're getting ahead of ourselves," Dr. Stramm said. "First, we have to get through the next twenty-four hours. We can worry about finding a donor later." She leaned over to place one hand over his. "When was the last time you slept?"
"I don't remember."
"You should go home, get some rest."
"I want to stay here. Just in case. Is that all right?"
"Hospital policy is --" She waved off the demurral. "Sure," she said, and stood. "I'll show you to the ICU waiting room. And I'll have an orderly get you a pillow and blanket."
"May I . . . see Paul?"
"He's still out from the anesthesia. He'll probably sleep through the night. But you can stop by for a few minutes, if you like."
She took him to ICU. Paul's bed stood in the center of an imposing hodgepodge of EEG and EKG monitors, IV stands, a tangle of equipment he didn't recognize -- the hemodialysis machine, he guessed. He had to turn sideways to edge up to the bed.
The sheets covered most of the damage, but Paul's face was horribly visible. The skin around both eyes was purplish-black and swollen. Multiple contusions marred his cheeks. Tubes ran from his nose and mouth.
John preferred the tattoo.
He stared at Paul's unconscious form for several minutes. He thought he should probably be crying, but it seemed the place inside him that housed his sorrow had gone empty, drained. After a while, he left the ICU and went to the waiting room. The promised pillow and blanket lay on a couch.
A wall clock displayed the time -- just after four a.m. The after-hours hospital quiet unnerved him. Most of the overhead lights had been darkened. A passing nurse stopped in and asked him if he wouldn't rather go home. He would have, actually, but he couldn't. Marie wouldn't have.
He managed about four hours of fitful sleep on the waiting room couch, and awoke sore and scratchy-eyed. Activity on the floor had picked up, many comings and goings in the ICU. A nurse at the station desk told him that Paul's condition had not changed.
He was heading back to the waiting room when he saw Keith, wheelchair bound, guiding himself down the corridor. Keith stopped when he saw John and glanced to either side, as if debating whether he should turn around or not. He held his ground as John approached.
Bandaged from the eyebrows up, Keith bore bruises and contusions similar to Paul's, though less severe. A long red slash, stitched shut, marked his jaw line and cut through the tail of his lizard tattoo. He wore a gray hospital gown.
He said, "I, ah, was coming to see Paul."
"He's doing all right for now, they tell me. But he hasn't woken up yet."
"Oh."
They faced each other in the middle of the corridor. Passersby flowed around them.
"That's a nasty scar," John said.
"One of them got me with a switchblade. And my head hurts. Concussion." He tapped the arms of his wheelchair. "They want me to use this, in case I get dizzy or something."
"Did the doctors say when you can go home?"
"Around noon. I wanted to check on Paul before I left."
"You can wait for him, if you like." John extended a hand in the direction of the waiting room.
"Ah . . ." Keith's brow wrinkled. "I can maybe check back in a few hours."
"All right." John stepped past him.
Keith reached out to touch his arm. "Mr. Griffin, it wasn't my idea to go there. It was Paul's. And like I told that cop, I don't know what he uploaded. He wouldn't say."
Still bleary, John had forgotten all about Paul's little stunt. Eric was no doubt waiting for a phone call. "All
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