Stretched out on the couch. How long have I been here? When's sunset these days? It's dark out, so it's been a few hours, but finding the exact time isn't worth the effort of lifting my arm to look at my watch. I'm comfortable. I want to enjoy it.

It was around five when I couldn't take it any longer and made the climb up the stepstool to get the box. Five milligrams, snap off the tourniquet, put the syringe aside, and lean back, knowing that rest is on its way at last. I was so tired from the pain that I fell asleep shortly after the morphine kicked in. That must have been around five-thirty.

This summer has been hell. The heat, the pain -- it's literally been hell, with the smell of hot asphalt standing in for brimstone. The heat makes me tired and the humidity makes my joints hurt and everything makes my leg hurt. Everything. I get on the bike and and I have to brace myself as the heat from the metal sets off the shooting pain in my thigh. I wait for a minute or two, or three, until I'm finally able to get going again. I get to work, pull into my parking spot, and have to give myself an extra bounce to get the momentum to lift my leg over the bike. The effort kicks up the neuralgia again, and I start getting a pins-and-needles sensation that overwhelms every other signal coming in from my leg. I have to glance down to my foot as I cross the parking lot so I don't step on it the wrong way and stumble.

When I get to the front door, I go straight to the vending machine, supporting myself with my left hand as I wait for my drink to drop. I balance myself on my left leg as I pop the top and take the first sip. Then it's off to the elevator, one step at a time through the crowded lobby. Four floors up, and finally I can relax in my office chair, preparing myself for morning rounds. I haven't made them drag the whiteboard into my office. I won't. I don't need that.

All day long, I manage the pain in my leg: fidgeting, pacing, staying away from the plastic chairs that cut into the back of my thigh the wrong way, rolling my chair away from the air conditioning, bouncing my super ball. Vicodin. Foreman ignores me and Cameron and Chase take less and less notice every day. When I need a refill, Wilson gives me a look that's a question and I give him a look that means I'm fine. Every so often Cuddy gives me the look and I just turn away. I'm not interested in her platitudes and saline.

And finally I'm home again. Most evenings I'm able to keep things under control, put up my leg and titrate the beer and Vicodin until I can get some rest. But some evenings, some nights....

It hasn't been that often. Just a couple of times. There was the first time, when that sucker Crandall was here. And then there was that time last month. But it's only when I need it. And when I finally give in and go for the box and undo the combination with my thumbs, breathing easier even through the pain because I know real relief is coming soon.... I always put the box back, always, stowing it back on the highest shelf and piling the books on top.

It's what works. It's what I need.

So how much longer am I going to need this?

And how much longer will it be enough?


I shove the thoughts away and reach for the remote. Out of the corner of my eye I see the phone blinking; someone must have called while I was asleep. I'll deal with it later.

I turn my attention back to the TV.