Lee was sleeping when Friday slipped back into his hospital room.
“Give it a day or so,” the nurse had said. “See how he’s doing. Then, you can take him home.”
Her breath was minty. Inadequately covering up cigarettes.
“All my men are in hospitals,” Friday said.
“Umm,” the nurse, half-listening, said.
When Friday sank into the tan Haitian-cotton-covered chair, Lee mumbled something indistinct in his sleep. Friday used the handkerchief she took from her pocketbook to dab drool at the corner of her father’s mouth. She kissed his bristly cheek. He smelled of printer’s ink and benzene, coffee, Old Spice, sweat. He smelled like Father.