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“You ever hear about the river?” she said. “I’m guessing you have.”

He looked bewildered. “What river?”

“The river Styx, dummy. Like the group. You know it was the river of hate? Burning hate? It circled hell nine times. That’s a lot of anger, Danny.”

He shook his head. “You’ve been reading up on all this?”

“I read more than you give me credit for, baby. I’m not just a stupid little costume girl.” Then the anger left her voice again. She bent down and kissed him gently on the lips. “I’ll make some coffee now.” Louisa turned toward the door, then said over her shoulder, “I really will take care of you. You know that, don’t you?”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Alone now, he lay there on the bed and tried to figure out what had happened. No, he thought, Louisa was by no means a stupid costume girl. True, he had never been knocked out by her intellect, but he’d realized a long time before that she was hardly unintelligent. It’s just that he’d been doing his own thinking with definitely the wrong head when he’d met Louisa on the Papa Legba shoot. He’d been directing the musical video script he’d written for the distasteful speed metal group; she’d been paid by their manager some incredible pittance to keep their mutant Caribbean neo-Goth costumes stitched together. Also she was taking care of the quintet’s hair and makeup.

Danny thought she was cute. And she responded. At the time, he didn’t think it was wise to tell her about his on-again, off-again affair with Ifetayo. On that day, at that moment, it was off again, but he’d known the climate could change at any time. And it had.

So for the next two months he had tried with increasing desperation to balance the two women in his life, until the horrific Friday night when Louisa’s unexpected visit had caught Danny in a highly compromising situation with Ifetayo. It had been like mixing oil and gasoline—and Danny’s very presence, it seemed, was the match.

Screaming, crying, threatening, and the silence that was always more heartbreaking. The two women had left his house at different times, in different directions, and he’d guessed it unlikely that he would see either one again.

Until Sunday morning. Today.

Louisa entered the bedroom with a tray. She smiled. “Cream and sugar, sweetie, just like you always want it.”

Did she know that about him? he thought. Well, obviously she did. “Thank you,” he said.

She extended the cup of scalding coffee toward him—he held his breath—and she didn’t spill a drop.

Dr. King was a brusque blond woman in her fifties who acknowledged Louisa’s presence with a handshake and then proceeded to poke and prod Danny’s body, hmm-ing and ah-ing when he winced at her fingers probing his arms and shoulders.

“We’ll do a blood workup,” she finally said. “But I suspect the verdict will be myositis.”

“So what is that?” said Danny.

“Essentially a severe inflammation of the muscle tissue,” she said, brow furrowing. “Sometimes virally triggered. It can be painful. You should recover.”

“Should recover?” he said, realizing his voice was rising a little. “I’ve only got another week.”

The doctor looked at him, expression puzzled. “You’re not going to die from this, Daniel.”

“No,” he said. “What I mean is, my Guild health insurance expires in another week.”

“Can’t you renew it?”

“Not without a work contract,” he said. “I had some hopes for a job, but I’m not gonna be able to work with my arms like this.”

Louisa cleared her throat. Both Danny and Dr. King swiveled their heads to stare at her. “I can take dictation,” she said. “I can help out.”

“On the medical side of this,” said Dr. King to Danny, “I could hospitalize you.” She grimaced. “For a week. I don’t think the myositis will be gone by then.”

“I can take care of you at home,” said Louisa. “You saw what I accomplished just this morning. I can keep you fed and clean, and medicated, if it comes to that.”

Silence pooled in the examination room. Finally Dr. King shrugged. “I’ve got no problem with home care.”

Danny opened his mouth to speak.

“Great!” said Louisa forcefully.