Peter Moretti is standing there with flowers in his hand. Smile smooth as his silk tie. Terri glaring at him, Madeleine fixing him with a calm, hard look. “I came to see my friend Danny,” Peter says. Terri spits, “Get out.” “It’s all right,” Danny says. Peter comes over to the bed, sets the flowers down on the side table, leans in and, still smiling, whispers, “You’re dead, Danny. Soon as you get out, you’re a dead man.” They all know that a hospital is off-limits. Last thing in the world you want to do in a war is piss off doctors and nurses, because you might be seeing them in a trauma ward,
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