15

Pella wasn’t in the guest room when Affenlight, post-espresso, peeked in. Perhaps this should have seemed worrisome—he expected her to vanish for good at any moment—but mainly he felt relieved not to have to explain or lie about where he was going. Which was to the hospital.

It was early, a thick snow was falling, and the hallways of St. Anne’s were quiet. Affenlight obtained the room number from a nurse and knocked softly on the jamb. No response. Tentatively, he pushed open the door. Owen seemed half asleep; his eyes lazily followed Affenlight into the room. Two narrow tubes snaked up his ashen arm.

“Hi,” Affenlight said.

Owen lifted his eyebrows in reply. He looked beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, in the way that a shattered dynastic vase might be beautiful, the ivory pieces unearthed and glued so the delicate plum filigree once again retraced its original circling paths after a lapse of centuries. Or was that an awful analogy? Owen did seem strangely ancient, after all, and possessed of an Asian delicacy, though not of Asian descent; the colors of plum and ivory could have come from his bruises and blood-sapped skin; and of course he’d been damaged now, and this evidence of his fragility could only increase his beauty…

At any rate, he somehow managed to look quite beautiful, even with the left side of his face grotesquely swollen and distended. Affenlight hesitated. His impulse to move toward the bed and offer some kind of comforting touch, to bless and thank Owen for being okay, was counteracted by the fear that whatever gesture he made might seem exaggerated and artificial. Finally he walked past the bed, feeling as if he were committing some tiny but still unforgivable crime of caution, and sat down in the chair beside the window.

Owen began to open his mouth, then grimaced and stopped. On the second try he carefully parted his lips and breathed the words through a slim gap between his teeth, without his usual elocutionary precision: “Guert. How did the meeting with the trustees go?”

Affenlight smiled. “Pretty well,” he said. “I think we’re on track.”

“My hero.” Owen winced with every word. He was looking toward Affenlight, but his eyes didn’t seem to focus properly.

“Don’t talk if it’s painful,” Affenlight told him. “I just wanted to say hello.”

“I like talking.” He paused with the obvious pain of talking. “What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“The doctor said a ball hit me. But I don’t remember batting.”

“You were in the dugout. Henry made a bad throw.”

“Henry did? Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s always the ones you least suspect.” Owen let his eyes fall shut. “I don’t remember anything at all. Was I reading?”

Affenlight nodded. “I warned you. It’s a dangerous pastime.”

The side of Owen’s mouth farther from his injury lifted into something resembling a smile.

“It’s good to see you,” Affenlight said.

“I can’t imagine why. I’m sure I look abysmal.”

“No.”

“It’s good to see you too. Though I can’t, really. Are my glasses around?”

Affenlight realized that this, more than the swelling and bruising, more than the slash of black stitches where the seams of the ball sliced his cheek, was what made Owen look so different, so vulnerable and lovely: for the first time in their acquaintance, he wasn’t wearing his glasses. “They didn’t make it into the ambulance,” he said. “Most likely they’re broken.”

“Ah.”

“Do you have another pair?”

Owen nodded. “Back in my room.”

“I’ll bring them to you,” Affenlight offered.

“No, no,” Owen said. “You’re busy. I’ll have Henry do it.”

“It’s no trouble. I need to swing back this way anyway.” Affenlight fished for something else to say, before Owen could remark on the obvious falseness of this statement. St. Anne’s lay five empty miles from Westish. “I’ll get a key from Infrastructure. Is there anything else you need?”

Owen thought about it. “I have a bit of pot. In my top dresser drawer.”

Affenlight laughed. “I doubt I could get it past the guards.” He pulled himself up out of his chair—he could bear to do so now that he’d scheduled a return visit. On the way to the door a wave of courage swept over him, and he pressed his hand to Owen’s smooth forehead, above his bandages and bruises. Owen’s eyes stayed closed. His flesh felt surprisingly warm, and Affenlight’s first impulse was to call the nurse. Then he realized that it wasn’t the heat of a fever, just the average animal warmth of youth. Embarrassed, he removed his hand and thrust it in his jacket pocket. He didn’t want to know how his touch felt to Owen—cold and stale, no doubt. No wonder he’d finally fallen in love—now that he had so little warmth of his own left to give. He truly was a fool. He moved toward the door, feeling defeated.

“You’ll bring my glasses?”

“Of course.”

“It’s pretty boring here. And I’m having trouble focusing. A thought slides into my head, it slides right out again. Perhaps when you come you could read me something.”

And just that easily, Affenlight was renewed.