"I was assaulted in the street," I said.

Her expression was sad and sympathetic. "Are you in much pain?"

"All over. But in my chest mostly. It hurts to breathe."

She nodded. My agony was nothing she didn't expect. "I'll get you something to relieve that."

"No. Wait. I need to use the bathroom."

"I'll fetch you a pan."

"No. I want to get up." I paused, a jolt of cold fear piercing through me. "I can walk, right? I'm not paralyzed, am I?"

"No, I don't think so. Try moving your legs," she said, and I did. They shifted. The pleasure this brought me was worth the concurrent pain.

I grinned at her, and she grinned back. She was a powerfully built woman, with thick arms and a kind, broad face.

"Help me up, please," I said.

Her mouth pursed in disapproval. "You should stay in bed, Mr. Lapid."

"How do you know my name?"

"From your identification papers. I saw them after you were brought in."

"My wallet was on me?"

"Yes. We put it in the head nurse's desk. Don't worry, it's in a locked drawer. No one will touch it."

I wasn't worried about that one bit. What concerned me was its mere presence.

"Was there money in it?"

She bridled at that, folding her arms tight across her large chest. "We don't pilfer our patients' belongings, Mr. Lapid."

"No, please don't misunderstand me," I said. "I didn't mean to suggest... I'm just surprised that the men who robbed me left my wallet behind."

Her expression thawed, and she smiled. "Like I said, you were pretty lucky."

I returned her smile, though I saw no cause for levity. My mind was churning. I'd assumed that I had fallen victim to a robbery, but robbers generally take their victims' wallets or at the very least empty them of money before leaving them behind. My attackers had done neither, which made me wonder as to their motives.

But that question could wait. I had more pressing business to attend to.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Rona."

"Can you help me up, Rona? It won't wait much longer."

She opened her mouth, likely intending to berate me for my recklessness, but in the end, she merely shook her head in the manner common to women confronted by foolish men and leaned over me, cautiously sliding one arm under my back, grabbing me under one armpit. Her other arm curled around my calves, just under my knees.

"This will hurt," she said, her tone implying that it was nothing but just punishment for my obstinacy, and heaved. The movement stole my breath away. It was the only reason why I didn't cry out. The pain was hot and biting and bone-deep, but then I was sitting, propped by Rona's strong arms.

"Ready?" Rona said, and when I nodded, she heaved again, and this time I did make a sound, a low guttural grunt, but then I was standing, my bare soles stinging at the coldness of the floor, and step by slow step, Rona helped me across the room and into the bathroom.

At the end of this journey, no more than twenty feet in length, I was soaked in sweat. Rona wasn't even breathing hard. She must have been made of steel.

"Do you need more help?" she asked.

I shook my head. More stupid obstinacy, I thought, as I swayed a little on my feet, my stomach roiling, but Rona didn't argue. She told me she'd wait outside and left me alone. I was wearing hospital clothes, which were easy to maneuver out of, fortunately, and I urinated for a long moment. Once again, I filled the toilet bowl with red. Whatever recovery my kidney had done since the night of the demonstration had been erased, and likely more besides.

Turning from the toilet, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My skin was flush with fever. My face was a mess of injuries. My bottom lip was torn and puffy; my left cheek bruised a violent red; half of my forehead abraded a raw pink; my right eye bloodshot and ringed with purple; my nose swollen and misshapen. No wonder I had trouble drawing breath.

But at least I wasn't blind or paralyzed. Like Rona said, it could have been much worse.

"Thank you," I told Rona after she helped me back to bed.

She tucked the blanket around me, then looked at me thoughtfully before saying, "Normally, I wouldn't have agreed to help you get out of bed—you might have fallen, and then I'd be in trouble—but something tells me you would have tried to do it on your own. You're a tough one, aren't you?"

"What makes you say that?"

She pointed at my midsection. "Your scars. I saw them when we were examining you after you were admitted. Those are gunshot injuries, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"May I ask how you got them?"

"In the War of Independence. Fighting the Egyptians in the Negev."

"You were lucky then, too," she said. "Two gunshots in the torso—most wouldn't have survived that."

"It's all relative," I answered. "The truly lucky ones didn't get shot at all."

"That's true. And the scar on your shoulder?"

"Another gunshot," I said, not sure why I was being so forthright. Perhaps I was enjoying her attention and the chance to act the strong man before her eyes now that I was so weak I could hardly stand on my own. "A grazing wound."

"But not in the War of Independence."

"How can you tell?"

"Scars age just the same as people do. This one's fresher than the other two. So is the one on your side. That one was made by a knife, I think. Am I right?"

"You have good eyes."

She shook her head. "Just experience. I've seen such wounds before." She paused, licked her lips, making up her mind, then said, "But I've never seen anything like the ones on your back."

And just like that, all my preening enjoyment evaporated. The other scars were marks of pride; the ones on my back were anything but.