"No, my family."

"What did they say?"

"It's in the drawer."

Edwards opened the drawer of the nightstand next to the frame. It was a rather bright letter, careful, measurably written, filled with support and concern. There was a section about Carol, how much she loved David and how happy she was that he was finally out of the fighting.

"Did you answer?" Edwards asked.

"I don't know how."

"They know you're burned." Edwards refolded the letter. "It seems to me they're holding up quite well. The least you could do is help them out."

David slowly turned his head. His eyes, hollow holes, stared coldly and defiantly at Edwards. "I've been throwing up all day. I can't keep anything down."

"Yes," Edwards said calmly, putting the letter back in the drawer. "I know."

"I'm not going to make it, am I? No, no, don't interrupt. I know I'm not. That stuff you keep putting into my IV bottle-the only other guys who get it are the ones on respirators. I know," he said, almost triumphantly. "I've checked on the way to the whirlpool. I know," It was all there in his eyes-the pain, the suffering, the loss of belief. It caught Edwards off guard.

"I told you about the pain, didn't I?" he said angrily. "Have I bullshitted you yet? Look, if you were going to die, I'd let you know. Right? I'd give you the chance to tie things up, understand?" A certain distance entered David's stare. a vague confusion that was more pathetic than his glaring hopelessness.

Edwards got up. "Now, dammit," he said, "I want you to think of an answer to that letter. I'll be back in the morning and I want an answer. Is that clear?"

Depressed and angry, he left the ward. Outside he passed groups of patients from the other wards, some standing around talking, others doing nothing, or being pushed around in wheelchairs by their buddies. Johnson was right, he thought. David would die. He was probably, all things considered, dead the moment the round hit the rucksack.

The phone woke him a little past three the next morning.

"Majorl"