Monk was really damn glad there were no traffic cops bothering him on the way to the hospital. The body processes alcohol at the rate of about an ounce an hour, and even fumbling with fuzzy recollections he figured there had to be something like a pint of whiskey sloshing around in his system. He didn’t actually hit anything, but there was some horn-blaring and four-, six-, eight-, and ten-letter words shouted at him. He dared not let go of the wheel long enough to either wave an apology or flip anyone the bird.
He veered into the ER lot, parked crookedly in a slot reserved for ambulances, ignored something a security guard said, and staggered inside. Patty was waiting for him in a wheelchair and the sight of her jolted him into a shocked sobriety. She looked tiny, withered, deflated. Her complexion, generally a pale tan, looked jaundiced and she sat slumped. Her eyes, though, had a shifty, feral quality to them, darting at him and away, back, and away again.
Monk squatted beside the chair and took her right hand and held it against his cheek. She leaned over and rested her forehead against his.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Monk kissed her hand.
“Get me out of here,” she whispered fiercely. “Please, Monk, take me home.”
Which he did.