I laughed shakily: my worry about his being shot and left to die in the Khyber Pass-he was alert, he could remember that, he remembered my phone number. He remembered me. “Where is he?”
Carrera gave me the name of the hospital. I sent messages to Morrell, I babbled in Italian and English. Long after Carrera hung up, I still clutched the phone to my chest, my face wet. Once in a blue moon, in the midst of pain and helplessness, life hands us a reprieve.
Sara Paretsky
***
