The lights of the Vineyard appeared under the right window. Edgartown was the bright knot to the south.
Renner started his descent.
The earpiece clicked. It was Cabot.
“I’m at the pad. Car’s running. He’s out of surgery and in recovery. Not awake yet.”
“Stanley, thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Renner set us down. The skids touched and settled. He killed the engines.
Through the window, I saw Cabot at the edge of the pad in his coat, hands in his pockets. His face looked pale in the running lights.
The cold off the water hit hard. When Cabot reached me, he put his hands on my shoulders, held them there for one second, and let go.
“He’s good, Farrow. He asked the surgeon two questions in pre-op. First was his crutch timeline. Second was where I was.”
I exhaled.
A nurse named Iris was at the nurse’s station inside the east entrance of the hospital. She was small, in her fifties, with reading glasses pushed up. She looked at me, then at Cabot.
“You’re the partner,” she said as she looked back at me.
“I’m the partner.”
“He’s in twelve. Out of recovery five minutes ago. He may wake up sooner than the surgeon said. He’s the kind who does. You can sit with him as long as you need to. Page the floor when he wakes. Red button on the wall.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Cabot walked me to the door and stopped three feet short. “I’ll be in the cafeteria. Phone’s on.”
“Stay close.”
I took off my coat, folded it over my arm, and entered room twelve.
The room was warm. A single light was on dim over the head of the bed.
Dane was on his back, blanket up to his chest. Left arm on top of it, IV taped to the inside of his forearm. His right arm was at his side, palm up, with fingers slightly curled.
His face was clean. Hair flat on one side from the pillow. He had a butterfly bandage at his hairline where his head hit the floor.
Dane’s color was good.
I pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down . He breathed slowly and steadily.
I reached out and placed my hand over his right palm. He stirred slightly, moving his thumb, and his fingers closed by a quarter inch.
Iris had said he was the kind who might wake sooner than the surgeon expected.
His eyelids moved. Opened. Closed. Opened again and stayed. He looked at the ceiling for a count of three. Then he turned his head, slowly, and looked at me.
“Hi.” His voice was scratchy.
“Hi yourself.”
“You’re here.”