Echo forced his eyes open again, then wedged his right elbow under himself, feeling for the floor with his feet. There was an IV tube in his left arm, tangled in the thin sheet. Another wave of pain swept through his head. Echo recognized it and waited, letting it pass. The tape on his arm stretched the skin, pinching it where the needle went in. He sat up and put his weight on his feet. The goddam machine beeped again. Echo could hear his pulse, feel it in his throat. Fuck it.

He stood up.

There was a single clear tube taped to his arm, running up to a plastic bag of clear fluid hung from the arm of a weighted IV stand. He pushed back the curtain and reached for the pole to steady himself. He went to the foot of his bed and took the clipboard from the hook and studied it. He read it twice, flipping back and forth between the pages, then tossed it on the foot of the bed.

His clothes were folded in a pile on the counter next to the air conditioning vent under the window. The mid-afternoon sun slanted dimly through the dusty window, the metal frames making parallelograms on the polish-worn floor tiles. The curtains were drawn around the other bed in the room. The beeps continued, but he could push back against the pain now. Echo was thirsty.

Echo wheeled the IV stand to the door and opened it slowly. A hallway went left and right, opening to a nurse's station on the left, high counters enclosed with plexiglass, hung with monitors and wires. A woman sat behind the glass, typing intermittently on her computer and rubbing the corner of her mouth with the capped end of a ballpoint pen. Echo closed the door, holding the latch quiet.

He turned and almost lost his balance. Gripping the pole, he made his way to the curtain and peered in. It was Memo. In street clothes. Sound asleep, curled on top of the sheets, the fingers of her hand curled around the straps of her purse. The calves of her legs made a v, and Echo studied the lines of the polish on her toes, bronze on pink. Her hair spilled across her face, obscuring her eyes. Echo let go of the pole and used his ring finger to lift it back and over her ear. Two curving strands of hair remained, their tips tucked into the fold of her eyelid. He ran the back of his knuckles down the side of her face and her eyes opened, blinking. Her pupils shrank and the line between her eyebrows deepened. "We gotta go." He put his finger to his lips. Looking in his eyes, Memo smiled wryly. He straightened and let the curtain fall between the two of them.

Echo went to the counter and took a handful of kleenex from the cardboard box on the counter near the sink. He stripped two lengths of surgical tape from a dispenser mounted on the wall, attaching them to the middle fingers of his left hand. He sat on the edge of his bed and picked at the corner of the tape that held the IV in his left arm. He peeled the tape back slowly, working it.

Memo sat up and rubbed her eyes with the tips of her fingers, then ran them back through her hair. She stood up and ducked out from under the curtain. She smoothed her skirt. Echo was sitting on his bed, picking at the bandage on his arm, concentrating. There were tissues on the sheets next to him and she folded them into a small rectangle. She made to give it to him, but he straightened his arm and said, "No, you. Just put pressure on it." Laying it across the ridge where the needle went into his arm she pressed with her thumb. Their eyes met for a moment, then he eased the needle out. He moved his thumb over hers and held the fingers with the tape out for her. She drew her thumb back from under his, took the tape one at a time, stretching and smoothing it across his arm. The heat in her hands lingered in his skin.

"What time is it?" he asked her. She straightened and went back to the other bed, reaching in her bag for her phone. She shook her head and showed him the blank screen, her battery dead. "We have the uplink at two today." She shook her head again. Not today, we don't.

"Do you have your car here?" She shook her head no. Echo stood up slowly. "We have to get out of here." He went over to the window and shrugged off the gown. Memo sat on the edge of his bed with her back to him and watched in the mirror.

Low on the inside of his left shoulder blade Echo had a tattoo of crimson heart split by a forking bolt of lightning, expertly done. As he stooped and moved the muscles of his back brought it to life, a twisting writhing thing. She studied it until it disappeared behind the tail of his shirt. He tucked it in and cinched his belt. She collected her purse while he laced his shoes. They scanned the room and then he bent over the sink, drinking water from his cupped hands. She scooped the bottles of pills from the shelf into her purse, while he took the his charts from the clipboard, folding them twice and pocketing them.

He went to the door, but her hand on his arm stopped him and she took the knob and stepped out into the hall, turned to the right without looking back, her footsteps regular and deliberate. He followed her staying close to the wall for support. His head was killing him.

The corridor turned twice and they came to the elevators. Memo pushed the button. They stood facing each other, waiting, Echo leaning on the wall. His eyes were red and his face was lined. The elevator blinged and Echo winced. Memo wondered if he would tell her the story of his heart; if she would tell him hers.

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