KnockOut

about what you did at the Georgetown bank.”
    Savich said, “Buzz is very glad to be back home. He says water and sun are okay with him, but since no one could ever tell if he had a tan or not, why bother?” Savich shook his head, smiling.
    Ethan rose, held up his hand. “All right, guys, don’t talk about the good stuff until I get back. I’m going to get us some drinks.”
    Sherlock saw Joanna watch Ethan make his way to the buffet line along the back wall of the cafeteria. He turned and smiled brightly at them, gave Joanna a little wave.
    It was hard for Joanna, Savich saw, to turn away from Ethan, but she finally managed it. She said, “Dillon, tell me first how your leg’s doing.”
    He did exactly what he always did when he was hurt—he simply shrugged, said he was fine.
    Joanna said, “All right, then, I can see you’re not the one to ask. So you tell me, Sherlock, how’s his leg?”
    Sherlock said matter-of-factly, “The stitches come out in a couple of days. There wasn’t too much muscle damage, so Dillon limps less every day, needs fewer pain pills. The doctor said he could begin some gentle workouts the end of next week.”
    “How’s Sean doing?”
    “He saw his father moving around on crutches. Since Dillon made light of it, Sean wasn’t worried or scared about it. He decided it was cool. When Dillon graduated to a cane, Sean got himself a long stick and tried to walk like his father. He got his first taste of reporters a couple of days ago. They ambushed the three of us at Danby Park where we play Frisbee. Picture this, Dillon’s sitting under a tree watching me throw a Frisbee to Sean, then Sean throws the Frisbee to Astro, grinning at the reporters over his shoulder, and all those people with their microphones and cameras surround him, looking for a big dose of cute.” She smiled. “I fear Sean’s a ham. Like Buzz, he loved it. Like Buzz, he’s a natural.”
    “I wanted to grab him up and limp away,” Savich said, “but to be honest about it, the crews were great with him. You don’t often see a rabid pack of newshounds charmed like that, but Sean did it. He made it on most every news station that evening, even on one of the major network stations.”
    “Most of the ICU saw him,” Joanna said. “He was fantastic. I can’t wait for him to get together with Autumn.”
    While Sherlock told them another Sean story, Savich thought about things. He realized that even his gut now accepted that Autumn would live. She would be herself again. But the other, her incredible gift—since she’d been shot, he’d picture her in his mind many times every day, but he couldn’t reach her. Nor had she called to him. It would be nice, he kept thinking, to speak to Autumn, no matter where she was, just to know how she was doing, what she’d done that day.
    Would Autumn tell Sean about her gift? Would she be able to speak to Sean? Who knew? Sean was his son, after all. But the question now was, and he hated even to consider it, would she still have her ability at all?
    Savich said, “The evening Sean was on TV, it was next to impossible to get him to bed. He was so high, I had to pull him off the ceiling. His grandmother—my mom—didn’t help. She was stuffing him with brownies she’d brought over, telling him he was the next Matt Damon.” Savich grinned. “I’ll bet he’s missing all the attention, with only Gabriella for a slave until we get home. I understand, though, that his best friend, Marty, from right next door, isn’t happy with him. She called him a show-off, said he should have talked about her on TV, since she’s been his friend all these years, and he was boring.”
    Ethan returned with three coffees and a cup of tea, four fat bagels, and a dozen packets of cream cheese and butter. He grinned. “Ambrosia for the arteries.”
    Joanna was smiling as she spread a thick coat of cream cheese on her bagel. “Do you know, this is the first time in a week I’ve been hungry?” She took a huge bite. “Ah, that tastes nearly as good as you do, Ethan . . .” Her voice dropped off, her face turned red.
    Ethan laughed at her. It sounded so sane, so normal.
    Joanna cleared her throat. “I have always blushed. It is my curse, along with my freckles. Dillon, you were talking about Victor Nesser?”
    “Well, not really.”
    “Who cares?” Sherlock said, and poked him in the side. “Tell Joanna what’s going to happen to Victor.”
    Savich said after he’d sipped the