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“You were having a nightmare,” he says.

I realize I’m staring. I stop immediately. “You were hovering over me.”

“I was trying to wake you.”

“From three inches away?”

“You weren't responding.”

“That usually means increase the volume, not enter my personal airspace.”

His eyebrow lifts. Very slightly.

It is irritatingly effective.

I look around. The room finally registers. Hospital bed. IV. Monitors. Large window with the blinds partly drawn.

It’s a private room, judging by the sofa, armchair, flowers, and absence of anyone loudly vomiting behind a curtain six feet away.

“Where am I?” I ask.

“You're in the hospital,” he says.

“I had gathered the medical theme.”

“St. Vincent's.”

I look toward the window. My head still feels heavy, but the sharp pain has softened into a dull, persistent throb. “How long have I been here?”

“Several hours.”

“Several?”

“Almost five.”

I stare at him. Five hours. There goes an entire shift. Then something else occurs to me. “Anya?”

“She is fine.”

“Nothing happened after I passed out?”

“No.”

I close my eyes for a second.

Good.

When I open them again, he is still watching me.

“You came with me?” I ask.

“Anya insisted.”

That tracks.

“She’s very persuasive for someone who still requires permission to cross a street.”

His mouth moves. Not quite a smile. “She has been accused of that before.”