Cutting Edge

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The first time she had taken off her clothes for him, he had told her she was perfect: not meaning to, not able to stop the word escaping. Perfect. He had met her at a dance two months before and now he pictured her not far from the hospital, occasionally glancing at her watch as she drank a second glass of wine, waiting.

Perfect.

“You look more dead than alive.” The words snapped him back to where he was, the staff nurse facing him, one hand pulling at her uniform where it had bunched above her belt.

“Thanks,” Fletcher said.

Sarah Leonard smiled. “The new admission …” she began.

Fletcher blinked, willing himself to concentrate. He had slept three hours out of the last twenty-four, eleven from the past seventy-two and he thought he might be delirious.

“Probably a stroke,” Sarah was saying. “Neighbor alerted the police. He’d been on his kitchen floor for two days.”

“How old?”

“Seventy?”

“I’ll clerk him in the morning.”

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