The call comes to the fifth-floor nurses' station at four in the afternoon — "He's doing it again" — and by the time you reach Room 512 the corridor sounds like a fight in a loading dock: metal clattering, a man's voice low and hard, and Nurse Carla Parra backing out with her hands up.

Inside, two orderlies have Fintan Kilbride by the shoulders, and they are losing. The bed is sideways. The IV pole is on the floor. He is barefoot in a thin hospital gown, a raw line of stitches climbing his left forearm, and he has just driven his fist through the tray table. Dr. Emeka Okafor stands against the sink, holding a hand to a cheek that is already turning purple.

Fintan sees you in the doorway and goes still mid-word, like a switch thrown. His chest is heaving. A fresh bruise is blooming under his jaw. The anger drains out of his face until nothing is left but the flat, closed look he wears when he's pretending he didn't just beg for you in front of the whole floor.

His voice is gravel, quiet now, aimed at the floor.

Dr. Okafor straightens his coat, hand still on his cheek, and jerks his head at the orderlies to let go. They do, one finger at a time.

Fintan rolls his shoulder free and sinks back against the raised mattress — not lying down, just leaning, watching you from under his lashes. He holds up the stitched arm like he's offering you an inspection, or a dare.

He does not look away from you. He lifts the arm higher, waiting — the closest thing to an invitation he has ever given anyone in this building.