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me to work out with her, eat better. Shit.”
    I couldn’t see how regret and remorse were going to aid Sam’s short-term recovery. I said, “That’s neither here nor there. It’s what you do from now on that matters, right?”
    He snorted. “God, that’s an intelligent thing to say, Alan. If I had my checkbook, I’d write you a check for your wisdom this very second. What is it these days, a hundred and something for fifty minutes? What a bargain! But they took my pants when the ambulance brought me in, sorry. My wallet was in it.”
    Sam fenced with me constantly about my profession; it was part of the fabric of our friendship. This particular jab was halfhearted at best. After dealing with Diane-who had been at the top of her game during our morning joust-I had no trouble absorbing Sam’s feeble sarcasm. “Forty-five minutes, actually. You scared, Sam?”
    He looked away from me before he nodded. “I’m glad I was with you yesterday. I never would have called for an ambulance if I was by myself. I would have convinced myself that it was a kidney stone. Or two stones. I’d probably be dead because I’m stubborn.”
    “I’m glad I guessed what was going on. It was lucky.”
    “How did you know?”
    “I didn’t know. The neck thing got me worried, though. Didn’t see what it could have to do with your kidneys.”
    He sighed, or groaned. I wasn’t sure.
    “The doctor told me I need to develop some collaterals, whatever that means. In case there’s a next time.”
    “Collateral what?”
    “Blood vessels. Blood supply.”
    “How are you supposed to do that?”
    “Exercise, apparently.”
    He spoke the word with an inflection usually reserved for a phrase like “root canal” or “prostate exam.”
    “I’ll help,” I said. “We’ll start off walking, then we’ll bicycle or run. Whatever they recommend.”
    “Thanks,” he said. He hadn’t wanted to ask for my help, but he’d hoped that I’d offer. “Want to know what’s ironic?”
    “Sure.”
    “Krispy Kreme is finally coming to Boulder. That’s what I heard. I’m probably never going to get to eat another doughnut in my life, and the Taj Mahal of doughnut shops is finally coming to my town.”
    “There are worse things.”
    “Name three.”
    “I thought your cholesterol was okay.”
    “It’s been going up for a while. It’s kind of high. The truth is, I eat a lot of crap. So I’ve been wondering, how did that thing work on Emily’s paw? The umbrella thing you were making?”
    “It’s working great; she loves it. Lauren thinks I should quit my job, patent it, and get rich.”
    “You don’t want to be rich.”
    “I don’t?”
    He shook his head, but he didn’t elaborate. In other circumstances I would have pressed him, but my mind had already darted back to the conundrum of the Dancing Queen and her husband the murderer.
    I opened my mouth to ask Sam for advice about Gibbs and Sterling, but as my eyes flitted from one of the unpleasant accoutrements of acute cardiac care that were surrounding him to another, I kept quiet. I admit that I briefly entertained the notion that Sam would find my unsolved homicide problem a pleasant distraction from his health and family problems, but that rationalization left an immediate sour taste.
    Discretion ruled. I decided that I would struggle with the Dancing Queen on my own.
    A nurse bustled through the door to Sam’s room as though she’d had a running start. She was all business, and her fresh white Reeboks told me she had a sprinter’s soul. She checked me out while her eyes took in the readings on Sam’s various monitors. She adjusted the pump on his IV and flicked at the spaghetti of plastic tubing leading to his forearm as though she were sending a malarial mosquito on its way to the afterlife.
    “How’s your pain, Detective?” For some reason she was touching his toes as she inquired.
    “Hey, Snoopy,” Sam said, as though he’d just recognized she was in the room.