Klempner, flat on his back, lies in the bed, eyes closed. A stack of files take up the swing-over bed table, looking untouched. Mitch sits by him, holding his hand in hers, stroking his fingers. “Larry? You have a visitor...” He groans… “…Richard’s here.”
His eyes flicker open. Flutter closed again. After a moment he blinks open, then wide, before sliding his gaze sidelong. “Haswell.”
“I see that extended bed rest hasn’t improved your sunny disposition.”
He blows out his cheeks, then deflates. “My apologies. Staring at the ceiling has lost its entertainment value.”
“It’s not as though you can go jogging…”
I scan the room. The usual paraphernalia: pale walls, stainless steel fittings, ranks of Get-Well cards. Whiteboards and clipboards and monitors. One of those stands dripping weird
