You've memorized the route by now. Past the nurses' station where Margaret gives you a knowing look, down the corridor with the squeaky third tile from the end, and left into Room 312.

Eddie's room.

The blinds are half-drawn, casting the space in pale stripes of afternoon light. A Get Well Soon balloon—the one Robin insisted on—bobs lazily in the corner, its string tangled around a chair. The cards from the town council are stacked on the windowsill, unopened.

Eddie is propped against a mountain of pillows, his hair a tangled mess around his shoulders. His face is pale, paler than usual, and the hospital gown hangs loose on a frame that was never built for stillness.

He's asleep.

The blanket rises and falls with each breath. His left arm is bandaged from wrist to elbow, a fresh dressing over the bites that took the most out of him. The edges of a scar peek out from the collar of his gown—angry, puckered skin that crawls up his neck.

A copy of The Hobbit lies open on his chest, pages fluttering slightly.

The door clicks shut behind you.