I sat for at least an hour, and my thoughts didn't suddenly turn bright and sunny. As far as I could tell, neither did Chutsky's.

He did not burst into tears, but he looked tired and a little grey, worse than I had ever seen him except for when I rescued him from the man who cut off his hand and foot. And I suppose I did not look a great deal better, although it was not the thing I worried about the most, now or at any other time. In truth, I did not spend a great deal of my time worrying about anything —planning, yes, making sure that things went just right on my Special Nights Out. But worrying truly seemed to be an emotional activity rather than a rational one, and until now it had never furrowed my forehead.

But now? Dexter worried; it was a surprisingly easy pastime to pick up. I got the hang of it right away, and it was all I could do to keep from chewing my fingernails.

Of course she would be all right. Wouldn't she? “Too soon to tell” began to seem more ominous. Could I even trust that statement?

Wasn't there a protocol, a standard medical procedure for informing next of kin that their loved ones were either dying or about to become vegetables? Start out by warning them that all may not be right “too soon to tell” —and then gradually break it to them that all is forever unwell.

But wasn't there some law somewhere that required doctors to tell the truth about these things? Or was that just auto mechanics?

Was there such a thing as truth, medically speaking? I had no idea this was a new world for me, and I didn't like it, but whatever else might be true, it really was too soon to tell, and I would just have to wait, and shockingly, I was not nearly as good at that as I had expected.

When my stomach began to growl again I decided it must be evening, but a glance at my watch told me that it was still only a few minutes short of four o'clock.

Twenty minutes later Chutsky's Guy From Bethesda arrived.

I hadn't really known what to expect, but it was nothing like what I got. The guy was about five foot six, bald and pot-bellied, with thick gold-framed glasses, and he came in with two of the doctors who had worked on Deborah. They followed him like high school freshmen trailing the prom queen, eager to point out things that would make him happy. Chutsky leapt to his feet when the guy came in.

“Doctor Teidel!” he said.

Teidel nodded at Chutsky and said, “Out” with a head motion that included me.

Chustky nodded and grabbed my arm, and as he pulled me out of the room Teidel and his two satellites were already pulling back the sheet to examine Deborah.

“The guy is the best” Chutsky said, and although he still didn't say the best what, I was now assuming it was something medical.

“What is he going to do?” I asked, and Chutsky shrugged.

“Whatever it takes” he said. “Come on, let's get something to eat. We don't want to see this.” That did not sound terribly reassuring, but Chutsky obviously felt better about things with Teidel in charge, so I followed along to a small and crowded cafe on the ground floor of the parking garage. We wedged ourselves in at a small table in the corner and ate indifferent sandwiches and, although I didn't think to ask him, Chutsky told me a little about the doctor from Bethesda.

“Guy's amazing” he said. “Ten years ago? He put me back together. I was in a lot worse shape than Deborah, believe me, and he got all the pieces back in the right place and in working order.”

“Which is almost as important” I said, and Chutsky nodded as if he was listening to me.

“Honest to God” he said, “Teidel is the best there is. You saw how those other doctors were treating him?”

“Like they wanted to wash his feet and peel him grapes” I said.

Chutsky gave one syllable of polite laugh, “Huh” and an equally brief smile. “She's gonna be okay now” he said. “Just fine.” But whether he was trying to convince me or himself, I couldn't say.

DR. TEIDEL WAS IN THE STAFF BREAK ROOM WHEN WE GOT back from eating. He sat at a table sipping a cup of coffee, which somehow seemed strange and improper, like a dog sitting at a table and holding a paw full of playing cards. If Teidel was going to be a miraculous savior, how could he do ordinary human things, too? And when he looked up as we came in, his eyes were human, tired, not at all brimming with the spark of divine inspiration, and his first words did not fill me with awe, either.

“It's too soon to be certain,” he said to Chutsky, and I was grateful for the slight variation in the standard medical mantra. “We're not at the real crisis point yet, and that could change everything.” He slurped from his coffee cup. “She's young, strong. The doctors here are very good. You're in good hands. But a lot can still go wrong.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Chutsky asked, sounding very uncertain and humble, like he was asking God for a new bicycle.

“You mean a magic operation or a fantastic new procedure?” Teidel said. He sipped coffee. “No. Not a thing. You just have to wait.” He glanced at his watch and stood up. I have a plane to catch.” Chutsky lurched forward and shook Teidel's hand. “Thank you, Doctor. I really appreciate this. Thanks.” Teidel pried his hand away from Chutsky's. “You're welcome,” he said, and headed for the door.

Chutsky and I watched him go. I feel a lot better” Chutsky said.

“Just having him here was major.” He glanced at me as if I had said something scornful, and said, “Seriously. She's going to be okay” I wished that I felt as confident as Chutsky. I did not know that Deborah was going to be okay. I really wanted to believe it, but I am not as good at kidding myself as most humans are, and I have always found that if things have a choice of directions, they are most likely to go downhill.

Still, it was not the sort of thing I could say in the ICU without causing a certain amount of negative feeling to be directed toward me, so I mumbled something appropriate and we went back to sit at Deborah's bedside. Wilkins was still at the door, and there had been no change in Deborah that I could see, and no matter how long we sat or how hard we looked at her nothing happened, except for the hum, click, ping of the machinery.

Chutsky stared at her, as if he could make her sit up and speak by the power of his gaze. It didn't work. After a time he switched his stare to me. “The guy who did this” he said. “They got him, right?”

“He's locked up” I said. “At the detention center.” Chutsky nodded and looked like he was going to say something else. He looked toward the window, sighed, and then went back to staring at Deborah.

Dexter is known far and wide for the depth and sharpness of his intellect, but it was nearly midnight before it occurred to me that there was no point in sitting and staring at Deborah's unmoving form. She had not leapt to her feet from the Uri Geller intensity of Chutsky's gaze, and if the doctors were to be believed she was not going to do anything at all for some time. In which case, instead of sitting here and slowly sagging into the floor and morphing into a hunched, red-eyed lump, it made more sense for Dexter to totter off to bed for a few squalid hours of slumber.

Chutsky offered no objection; he just waved his hand and muttered something about holding down the fort, and I staggered out of the ICU into the warm and wet Miami night. It was a pleasant change after the mechanical chill of the hospital, and I paused to breathe in the flavor of vegetation and exhaust fumes. There was a large chunk of evil yellow moon floating in the sky and chuckling to itself, but I did not really feel its pull. I could not concentrate at all on the joyous matching gleam a knife blade would give off or the wild night-time dance of shadowy delight I should be longing for.