I found him curled on his side on a gurney in a curtained alcove, pale and sweating, one arm wrapped across his abdomen as if instinct alone could protect the place that hurt. He looked younger than twenty-two in that moment. Not like a graduate student living three hours from home. Not like the self-sufficient young man who argued with me about conservation policy and laughed too loudly at bad movies. He looked like a boy trying not to cry in front of strangers. A nurse was taking his vitals, and when she saw me approach, she straightened.
“Sir, are you family?”
“I’m his father. Dr. Garrison Mills, chief of surgery at St. Catherine’s.”
Her eyes widened just slightly, then she glanced toward Ethan with unmistakable concern. “I’ve been worried about him,” she said in a lowered voice. “His fever has gone up to 102.3. His pain keeps increasing. I’ve asked Dr. Vance twice to reassess him, but he keeps saying the patient is exhibiting drug-seeking behavior.”