I stood outside my father's hospital room a long time, unable to step inside. His left arm and right leg were bound in casts. A triangular bar hung by a chain over his bed. He grabbed it with his right hand and pulled himself upright. Through the hospital pajamas I could see his biceps bulge. Even in his seventies, the man was strong.

Hospitals have a certain odor that you forget once you leave, but step back into one, and that smell excavates memories of every other hospital visit. The smell of sickness and alcohol were working on my nerves, and I wanted to be anywhere but here. I was about to turn away and head back down the hall when my father spotted me lurking by the door.

"You coming in?" he said. "Or did you just stop by to ogle the nurses?"

I stepped inside, took off my jacket, and slid a chair around next to his bed. I was very aware of my heart beating.

"Hi, Dad. It's been awhile."

"Dylan. Damn good to see you. You're looking good."

"Wish I could say the same for you. You look like hell."

He said something, but his voice rasped, and I didn't catch it. I leaned in close until he shot me a nasty look. I backed off to give the man some space.

He poured himself a cup of water from the plastic pitcher on his bedside table. He took a long drink, cleared his throat, and used the controls to adjust the bed. I slumped in the chair and stared at the wall while he got himself situated. I had never seen my father in a hospital bed before. He was one of those men who was always moving, always doing something. I had countless memories of him building things and fixing things. And driving. Lots and lots of driving.

"It's not as bad as it looks," he said.

"You still haven't told me what happened."

"We'll get to that."

"On the phone, they said you had some sort of accident."

"An accident. Yeah. That's funny."

"They said—"

"Never mind what they said, Dylan. We'll get to all that in good time. There's something I need to ask you. And I want a straight answer."

"I guess that means our small talk is over."

"You guess right."

He locked his eyes on me for a long time. I returned the look as best I could. A nurse stepped in the room, took one look at us, and did an about-face.

"Tell me about Emily."

My scalp tingled, and my jaw went numb.

I said, "Who?"

"Emily," he said, louder now, his voice revving up to its old power. "Tell me about her."

"Drugs must have you mixed up, Dad. I don't—"

"Bullshit, Dylan. You know damn well what I'm talking about. I can see it in your eyes. You forget, I read people the way you read books. You still read a lot of books?"

"A few. Teachers need to keep informed."

"You, a teacher." He uttered a little laugh. "That still cracks me up, even after all these years."

"Teaching's a respectable vocation."

"That's not what I meant. Hell, I'm in no position to judge, all the odd jobs I've worked. It's just that you were always so quiet, nose stuck in one book or another. Now every day you stand in front of a classroom and talk."

"People change."

"That may be, but some things don't change. You still can't lie worth shit. You practically pissed yourself just now when I brought her up. So, spill it. Tell me about Emily."

"Emily was always there for me," I said. "Is that what you want to hear?"

"She ever scare you?"

"No," I said.

Our eyes met. Then I looked away, and he knew damn well I was lying.