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“Though there was similar damage down around Des Moines as a result of a storm like ours.”
    â€œHow do you know that?” asked Bershada.
    â€œConnor’s paying attention to the radio news.”
    â€œThat man of yours has been a real blessing, and not just to you!” declared Bershada. She checked her watch. “Uh-oh, I have to get on home. My grandson’s got the grill fired up and we’re cooking a lot of our meat from the freezer and having the neighbors in for a late picnic.”
    Godwin watched her go out the door and said to Betsy, “There’s a great case of making lemonade when you’re handed a whole bushel of lemons!”

Chapter Five

    T OM Riordan figured that in a couple of days he’d be up and around. He was strong, still pretty young. If they’d just stop filling him up with those painkillers, he’d be all right.
    Right now he was swimming in a dark sea of oxycodone. He knew he had a broken leg, but he’d seen people with broken legs walking around in a kind of boot. Why couldn’t they give him a boot?
    He was in a real mess, that he knew. He remembered a tree falling into his bedroom—he was pretty sure that hadn’t been a dream—trapping him in his bed, and someone refusing to lift the tree off him—and he thought maybe that someone was Sergeant Lars Larson. But maybe not, maybe that part was a dream. Lars Larson was normally a good man, less inclined than many to pick on him.
    He needed to get back home, to lock his doors and keep people out.
    Lots of people had come into his house—into his own private house! And now they knew about his things. His very own, valuable things. They’d pick up his things, move his things, handle them, maybe damage them.
    Steal them.
    How long had he been here? A day or two. Or maybe longer? Maybe days and days and days. Surely not so long as a month, but too long. He had to get out of here.
    That might be hard to do. He knew it wasn’t just a broken leg. Despite the shots and pills, he hurt in many places. His leg was the worst. Or maybe his head. And it even hurt to breathe.
    They said he had to stay here. But he could lie in his own bed and set an alarm clock to remind him to take pills, couldn’t he? He had an alarm clock; several of them, actually. Maybe more than several—numbers had never been Tom’s strong suit.
    On the other hand, this bed was really comfortable. He hadn’t realized what an uncomfortable bed he owned until he woke up in this one. Maybe they’d give him this bed.
    No, probably not.
    Maybe he could somehow take this bed and sneak it over to his own house. But there would be no way to get it up the stairs, so he’d have to camp out in his living room.
    Though his living room was already crowded with his things.
    His things. He could just see people walking through his house right now, picking up his things, handling his things, breaking his things.
    Stealing his things.
    He had to get out of here.
    He could stay at home, take the pills they kept giving him. Set an alarm clock so he’d know when to take the next one. Couldn’t they figure that out?
    He needed to go home and run those people out of his house.
    Those people were taking his things.
    Maybe he could figure out a way to take this really comfortable bed home with him.
    He was smart. He could think of a way.
    His head hurt.
    His leg hurt.
    But maybe . . . sure.
    Meanwhile . . . sleep awhile . . .
    *   *   *
    T HERE were five people sitting around the oval table in one of the hospital’s smaller meeting rooms.
    â€œThe one good thing about this case is that Mr. Riordan has health insurance,” said Mr. White, the hospital administrator. “It’s not really first-class insurance, but he’s got solid catastrophic coverage. He was in good physical condition for a man his age when this happened, and it looks as if