"They think that she'll be better in the morning. She's already much better off than she was just a couple hours ago. Sleep's the only thing for it. They've got her mildly sedated, too." Hilda smelled like he remembered, the undersmell beneath her shampoo and the chemicals clinging to her hair. It took him back to their night together, and he stroked her cheek. "I'll stay here," he said. "I don't think that they're going to let you do that, Perry. This is a prison, not a hospital." "I'll stay here," he said again. "Just make it happen, OK? We're going to sue them into a smoking hole, right? That's got to give us some leverage. I'll stay here." She sighed and looked at him for a long time, but he wouldn't take his eyes off of Hilda. His broken arm throbbed and he was out of painkillers. They'd have painkillers here. Candice went away, and then, a while later, she came back. "Stay here," she said. "I'll come and get you in the morning." "Thanks," he said. Then he thought that he should say something more, and he turned around, but the lawyer had gone. He fell asleep holding Hilda's hand with his good hand, and woke up with an unbelievable pain in his broken arm and couldn't find a nurse. He bit down on the pain and spent a long watch that night staring at Hilda, thinking of all she meant to him and how weird it was that she meant so much when they'd had so brief a moment together. They hadn't let him bring his phone in, or he'd have taken a thousand pictures of her face in repose. He nodded off again. He woke when she did, stirring in her bed. Her movements were still weak and feeble, but they lacked the uncontrolled tremors of the night before. He leaned in for a kiss, not caring about his sour breath or hers. "Good morning," he said. "Morning, gorgeous," she said, and took him in a soft, sleepy hug. Candice sprung them and took them across town to her doctor, a young man who took great care in examining Hilda, explaining patiently which fluids he was drawing and which tests he planned on running on them. Perry had noticed that midwesterners came in two flavors: big Scandinavian Aryans with giant shoulders and easy smiles, and exchange students and immigrants in varying shades of brown, who looked hurt and bent alongside of the natives -- looked like the people he knew from back home, people who didn't have ready access to medical care or good nutrition in their formative years. The doctor was Vietnamese, but he was at least a couple generations in, judging by his accent, and he had the same midwestern smile and seemed big and bulky compared with the Vietnamese people Perry knew in Florida. He watched the man peer intently at a screen after taping some electrodes to Hilda's head, and felt like he'd come to some land of Norse giants.