Hospitals had all too much practice with bullet wounds. Jack was out in three days. He fumbled with the crutches as the cab pulled up to his house, paid the driver and made his way towards the front door.
Carol stuck her head over the eaves as he slowly levered himself up the front steps. "You back!" she said.
Jack waved at her weakly. She was rail thin again.
"We'll talk later," he said. "You can stay, but I'm going to show you where the IRS building is. When you get hungry, you go there. Now move away from the edge, okay?"
"Okay." The gargoyle head bobbed up and down as if she were one of those stupid fuzzy dog statues people used to stick on the back shelf of their cars. "Glad you back."
He turned the key in the lock, and mercifully, it opened without his having to do anything strenuous to it. The short walk had left him sweating, and he couldn't believe the pain in his leg.
All the pain got worse a second later. A pair of her panties were still draped across the stereo. A faint, lingering hint of roses clung to the air in the hallway. And if he closed his eyes, he could still hear her voice, could still expect to see her coming around the corner, down the hall, smiling, shedding clothes . . . wearing his ring.
Gone. All gone.