Tessa parked her convertible in the large asphalt lot beside the Youth Center and checked her watch. She was late picking Richie up. The Friday afternoon traffic had been horrendous on the way back from the gallery exhibiting her latest works. Richie had just finished his first week of summer school, and she and Duncan had promised him a night at the movies.

"Hi, Tessa," Jerry Morra said from the basketball court sidelines. He gave her his usual friendly grin. "Ready for a game of pick-up?"

Tessa shielded her eyes from the sun and watched a mob of teenage boys race up and down the court fighting for possession of the basketball, the game so fast and furious she had trouble keeping her eye on the ball. Richie spun and jumped in the midst of all the action, sweating and swearing as the boys went after each other with elbows and fouls and dirty plays.

"Looks a little rough to me," she admitted.

The youth worker grinned. "This is mild. You should see it when they're playing for real."

Tessa smiled back at him. Jerry obviously loved his job, and he was genuinely fond of Richie. They'd had him over to dinner twice in the month since Richie had come to live at the store, and she found him witty and intelligent.

"I don't think I'd want to see them playing for real." Tessa winced as one of the boys shoved another and nearly sent him sprawling. Before a fight could break out, Jerry's piercing whistle cut through the air. The boys - tall and short, black and white and Hispanic and Asian - retreated in their worn clothes and new sneakers to different ends of the court.

Tessa laced her fingers through the chain link fence and watched Richie as the ball went back into play. He played hard, with a cheerful concentration and swift, deft moves. In the shop he was sometimes like a bull cut loose among the china, but here in the sunshine and hot air he had grace and control. She wondered if she could create a sculpture that would capture his energy and enthusiasm. He was a rough boy, with hardened edges and years of experience mistrusting people, and she couldn't say she was entirely at ease with him living in her home. But each day they grew more accustomed to each other, a gradual process Duncan heartily endorsed.

She'd stopped hanging her lace bras above the washer machine. He'd learned to put down the toilet seat. She'd learned to tolerate MTV, at low volume levels. He'd stopped leaving dirty dishes all over the kitchen and living room.

Tessa would catch Duncan laughing sometimes at things Richie said, not to make fun of the boy but in genuine amusement. Hearing Duncan laugh made all the little inconveniences of Richie worthwhile. Her lover seemed too grim sometimes, too caught up in painful memories, and had no real male friends. Connor was probably the closest to him, and by his own admission Duncan only saw him every couple of years. Immortals could go decades or centuries without seeing each other. They had all the time in the Universe. She and Richie had only their normal lifespans, and all the problems of illness and injury that came with them.

Tessa sighed. She reminded herself to focus on the happy years she had ahead of her with Duncan, and not the prospect of her being an old, wizened hag in the company of an eternally dashing Scot. She glanced at her watch, knowing that Duncan would be waiting for them, and hoped Richie was almost done. Before she could ask Jerry when the game would be over, one of the players knocked Richie down to the ground. Richie's head slammed into the asphalt with a thud that sounded, to Tessa, like a cantaloupe on concrete.

"Shit." Jerry blew his whistle and raced across the court. Tessa scrambled to the fence entrance and pushed her way through the ring of boys to where Richie lay gasping for air, his face shockingly pale, his legs and arms moving weakly. Half the players argued with rising voices and pushes, two knelt on Richie's side, a few others watched the spectacle, and a few others wandered to the bench. Jerry knelt beside Richie, gently restraining his arms and keeping him from sitting up.

"Just stay still," Jerry told him. He issued out a series of orders to the remaining players. "Mike, go call an ambulance. Raoul, get some towels from the bench. Jace, go stand out front and wait for the paramedics."

"Richie?" Tessa smoothed back the damp curls from his forehead and captured his flailing left hand.

"I'm not hurt," he mumbled, still gasping, and then pressed his free hand to the back of his skull and came away with fingers sticky with blood. He clutched at Tessa's hand. "My head is killing me. Oh, Tessa, make it stop."

"You're going to be fine, Richie, just keep talking." Jerry took the retrieved towels and spread them over the goosebumps on Richie's arms and legs. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Four," Richie said thickly.

"Two," Tessa corrected.

"Okay," Richie agreed, his eyes sliding shut.

"Richie!" Jerry pinched his cheeks but didn't shake him or move him. "Richie, wake up," he said loudly, but the boy didn't stir.

"Where's that ambulance?" Tessa demanded, only now feeling the thump of her pulse in her temple and pushing down queasiness at the sight of Richie's bright red blood. She imagined all sorts of things - skull fracture, internal hemorrhage, brain damage - while straining to hear an approaching siren. When the paramedics did come she stumbled a few feet back, watching helplessly. With swift deft movements they strapped on a neck brace and oxygen mask, took his vital signs and bandaged his head, and then loaded him on first a backboard and then a collapsible gurney.

"I have to go with him," Tessa said to Jerry, her fingernails digging into his forearm.

"Give me your keys and I'll follow you," Jerry said. He watched the paramedics roll the gurney to the ambulance, his eyes wide and damp, and Tessa reached up and gave him a hard hug.

"He'll be fine," she said.

"Yeah, I know," Jerry said hoarsely.

The ambulance ride took six minutes. Tessa squeezed herself into the corner and tried to stay out of the way of the paramedic beside her. Richie didn't move from where he lay strapped down, but he regained consciousness halfway to the hospital and answered questions about his name and address with a thick tongue and hesitant words. At the emergency room the nurses rolled him away and the paramedic steered Tessa to the admitting desk and waiting room. Children on the floor in front of the counter rolled toy trucks against her shoes, while mothers watched overhead televisions. Everyone seemed to be coughing or sniffing, or talking loudly, or not making sense.

The short, swarthy admitting clerk didn't make eye contact with Tessa as she handed over a clipboard and form. Tessa jotted down Richie's address, phone number, birthday, and lack of allergies. When she told the clerk she didn't think Richie had medical insurance, she got a frown in response. Tessa bristled at the unspoken reprimand.

"He doesn't need insurance," she said sharply. "Whatever the bill is, we'll pay it."

"That's what they all say," the clerk said grumpily.

Tessa narrowed her gaze. "If you're going to work with the public the least you could do is try to be civil."

The clerk fixed a frosty gaze on her and took the clipboard. Behind her, a doctor in a white lab coat moved into the cubicle. The clerk said curtly, "You can sit down now."

"Jackie," the doctor warned, "that's enough."

The clerk gave the doctor an impatient look and picked up a ringing phone. The doctor, who was young and pretty with wavy dark hair, picked up the clipboard. "I apologize," the doctor said. "It's been one of those days around here."

"I know the feeling," Tessa said. "May I see my friend?"

"They just bring him in?"

"He hit his head playing basketball."

"I'll find out what I can. Why don't you have a seat?"

Tessa sat down between a wizened man sitting hunched in a wheelchair and a black man with an icepack wrapped around his right wrist. No sooner did she touch the hard plastic did she remember to call Duncan. The row of telephone banks on the wall was fully occupied, and she waited for ten minutes before one became free. As she dialed the store's number Tessa wondered how many millions of tiny germs were crawling all over the black plastic receiver.

"It's me," Tessa said when Duncan answered. "I'm at the hospital."

"Are you all right?" he asked sharply.

"I'm fine. Richie hit his head playing basketball."

"Not another hospital bill," Duncan groaned.

Tessa's jaw tightened involuntarily. "That's a terrible thing to say, Mac. He's badly hurt. We had to come in the ambulance."

"I'm sorry," Duncan said, sounding instantly contrite. "I'll be right there. Which hospital are you at?"

"City South," she said.

Jerry Morra arrived and was sitting commiserating with her when the dark-haired doctor reappeared and motioned for Tessa to come to a back cubicle. "I'll wait here for Duncan," Jerry said, and Tessa navigated her way through the chairs and gurneys and emergency carts until she reached the thin white curtain separating the cubicle from the hall.

"Dr. Powers is the attending physician," the woman said, "but he said you can come keep your friend company. He's conscious now, but they're going to have to do some tests and will probably want to keep him overnight."

"Thank you, Doctor . . ."

"Anne Lindsey," the woman said, offering Tessa a smile and her hand.

"Tessa Noel," Tessa said automatically, and stared at Anne Lindsey as a faint shiver went down her spine. "Have we met before?"

"I don't think so," Anne said.

Tessa couldn't help but think she knew this woman somehow, they were somehow entangled in a strange and mysterious way. But the calling of her name from inside the cubicle diverted her attention.

"I'm here," she said, moving to the side of the exam table and gazing critically down at Richie. The brace had come off his neck, and a new bandage had been wrapped around his head. She took his closest hand and warmed his cool fingers between her palms. "How do you feel?"

"Terrible," Richie said, sounding only a little less dazed than he had in the ambulance. His blue eyes squinted at her, only half-open, and it was obvious the light above the table glared too brightly for him. "I want to go home"

"The doctors need to do some tests," Tessa said. "Why don't we wait for that?"

Two nurses came into the cubicle, followed by a short, brusque bald man Tessa assumed was Dr. Powers. "Well, hello," he said to Tessa. "You couldn't be Mom, could you?"

"No," Tessa said, smiling despite her concerns. "Just a friend."

"Good friend," Richie mumbled from the table.

"Well, good friend," Dr. Powers said, fishing out a pencil light and flashing it into Richie's left eye, "your Mr. Ryan here got quite a whack to the head."

"He'll be all right?"

"We'll know soon. We're going to do neck and skull x-rays and then a CAT scan," Dr. Powers said. "We've already taken enough blood to keep the lab happy for awhile. And you, Mr. Ryan, have earned yourself one night of luxurious accommodations in the beautiful, scenic neurology ward."

"I want to go home," Richie protested.

"You're better off here," Dr. Powers warned, moving to Richie's right eye and flashing the pen light again. "You go home, you bleed internally, you'll have to come back and it might be too late."

Tessa moved to stand above Richie and put one hand on his shoulder. She had no doubt that if Duncan were here, he could order Richie to stay and the boy would obey. Or, considering the way those two sometimes got along, Richie would go home just to be contrary.

"It's best if you stay," Tessa said. "Just for the night."

"My head hurts," Richie complained. "Make it stop."

Tessa met Dr. Power's gaze. "He'll stay," she said with authority, deciding that she'd sit on Richie to make him obey if it came to that.

A few minutes later they wheeled Richie away to do the CAT scan. "I think he'll be fine," Dr. Powers told her, "but it's not uncommon for mood swings after a head injury. If he's not himself, that's to be expected."

The trouble was, Tessa reflected grimly, that she wasn't exactly sure who Richie was in the first place. Smart-aleck kid, capable thief, good worker, lonely orphan. She stood in the empty cubicle for a moment, gathering her thoughts, and watched a nurse lead the black man with the injured wrist back to a different exam area.

"Well, Mr. DeSalvo," she heard Dr. Powers say, "what did you punch this time?"

Tessa went back to the waiting area. Jerry had struck up a conversation with a young candy striper whose nametag read Michelle. No sign of Duncan. He still hadn't arrive fifty minutes later, when a nurse came to tell her that Richie had been moved up to the fifth floor.

She and Jerry found the room at the end of the hall. Richie sat propped upright in the bed closest to the door. The bed by the window was occupied, and through a slit in the plastic curtain drawn around it Tessa saw a nurse helping a middle-aged man with gray hair. Richie seemed a little less confused than he'd been downstairs, but still looked shaky and upset. His clothes had been replaced by a blue cloth gown.

"I should have told Duncan to bring your pajamas," Tessa said lightly. "How do you feel?"

"Like that basketball is inside my head," Richie said truthfully. He fixed a woeful gaze on Jerry. "Last time I play for you guys."

Jerry managed a smile. "It wasn't what I had in mind either. Anything we can get for you?"

"Painkillers," Richie said, palming his eyes. He deliberately shifted his gaze away and whispered, "Man, I hate this."

Tessa circled around the bed and took both of his hands. "What is it? What do you hate?"

"I was just here," Richie complained. "A month ago. Mac's going to sick of paying for a charity case."

A month ago someone had deliberately tried to overdose Richie, and he'd wound up perched over Soldier's Bridge before Duncan talked him down. Two days and four thousand dollars later in hospital bills, he'd come to live with Tessa and Duncan in the store. Duncan had caught Richie looking at the bills one day and told him not to worry about it, that Duncan would send the bills to Social Services. Richie was still, technically, a ward of the state. But Richie knew Duncan hadn't even attempted the paperwork and had paid the bill out of his own pocket.

Tessa shook her head. "The money means nothing. Your health is what counts. And besides, it was an accident. You didn't plan to be here tonight, did you?"

Richie managed a half-smile. "I'd rather be at the movies."

"Maybe tomorrow night," Tessa promised, and kissed his forehead.

The nurse came in with Tylenol for Richie and reminded them that visiting hours would be ending soon. Tessa couldn't believe it was almost six o'clock. She also couldn't believe Duncan hadn't shown up yet. He better not have gotten it into his head to blame Richie for ruining their evening.

She and Jerry left a few minutes later, leaving Richie glum and depressed. Richie tried to get comfortable on the hard mattress but the sheets itched unbearably. The basketball game had left him sweaty, and he suspected that he smelled awful. The room's air conditioner had been set way too high for comfort. He fished for the blanket folded at the end of the bed, grunting at the fresh agony that lanced through his head. The nurse came out from behind the plastic curtain around the other bed and helped him.

"You need anything," he said reassuringly, "you push that buzzer there." Then, without warning, he pulled aside the curtain between the beds. "That goes for you too, Mr. Dawson."

Richie glanced over at the man. He was in his early forties, with a thatch of gray hair and a clean-shaven face. Crutches were lined up beside a wheelchair. Dawson returned his curious gaze and then his eyes went wide. With a swift, definite move he reached out, grabbed the curtain, and yanked it halfway down between the beds.

"I like my privacy," Dawson announced in a firm voice.

Richie was astounded, then insulted. So, Mr. Hoity-toity liked his privacy. Fine. The nurse left without comment, leaving the two of them alone in the room. The harsh fluorescent lights grated on Richie's sensitive eyes. The corridor outside was full of noise - shoes clicking, carts rolling, voices - and suddenly Richie felt all alone, very miserable, and terribly sorry he'd ever learned how to play basketball in the first place.

On his side of the curtain, Joe Dawson tried to keep his jaw from falling into his lap in surprise. What bizarre twist of fate had landed Duncan MacLeod's new ward smack dab into the middle of Joe Dawson's hospital room? Joe knew all about Richie Ryan. He'd seen Richie breaking into the store, and knew Richie had witnessed Duncan kill Slan Quince.

He'd been surprised to see MacLeod take the kid in - in the last twelve years the Highlander had seemed happy solely with Tessa Noel - but Immortals could be amazingly unpredictable. Some of the other Watchers had already wondered aloud if Richie Ryan might be pre-Immortal. It was strongly suspected but not confirmed that most Immortals could sense those who had yet to die their mortal deaths.

Richie Ryan hadn't died, but somehow he'd landed in the same hospital room as Joe Dawson.

Which brought up the horrible chance that Duncan MacLeod might come to visit. Dawson knew MacLeod wouldn't recognize him, but he didn't want to risk accidental contact. And if Joe's family came to visit him - especially his brother-in-law James Horton, another Watcher - who knew what might happen.

Joe needed to switch rooms.

He didn't know how to do that without arousing suspicion.

Meanwhile, his Watcher instincts took over and he decided not to waste the opportunity to obtain more information. That, plus the fact the kid looked so miserable, prompted Joe to break the silence.

"So," he hazarded, "what are you in for?"

The kid didn't answer for a few seconds, and Joe wondered if he'd gone to sleep. Finally Richie's voice said, from the other side of the curtain, "Hit my head playing basketball. You?"

"Tests."

"What kind of tests? Algebra? Geometry?"

So the kid was a wise guy. Joe already knew that. "They want to make sure I'm not about to have a stroke."

Well, to be absolutely technical on the point, his doctors wanted to make sure he wasn't about to have a major stroke. They already suspected he'd had mini-strokes, or Transient Ischemic attacks. A few minutes of dizziness and headache here, a few instances of sudden numbness on the right side of his face and right arm - TIA's. His dad had died at age forty of a stroke, and Joe was determined not to go the same way.

He guessed he was going to give up smoking - again. Give up all the fatty foods he liked. Life just didn't seem fair sometimes.

"If you have a stoke, I'll call for the nurse," Richie offered from his side of the room.

Joe chuckled despite himself. "Thanks."

After a few more minutes Richie asked, "Do you think they'd get mad if I took a shower?"

"I don't know. You up to it? Sounds like you hit your head pretty hard."

"Not that hard," Richie's voice came back. "Just knocked me out for a few minutes."

Visions of Richie Ryan passing out in the shower flashed through Joe's head. He wouldn't be able to help in an emergency - he didn't even have his prosthetic legs on.

"Maybe you'd better wait," he suggested.

A sigh. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

Joe twisted his bedsheet between his hands. He was flirting with disaster and he knew it, but couldn't shut his mouth. "You really think your friend is going to be mad at you for getting hurt? I couldn't help but overhear."

"He can get mad," Richie admitted. He didn't feel comfortable talking about Duncan to his total stranger - this total Mr.Hoity-toity stranger, with his curtain drawn - but talking about his fears did loosen a knot of tension in the middle of Richie's chest. "He doesn't have a whole lot of sympathy for stupid things I do to myself."

Joe found himself in the odd position of defending Duncan MacLeod - a man he'd never met, but one he'd been watching and writing about for nearly a dozen years.

"Maybe he just worries," Joe said.

"Maybe," Richie agreed glumly. The fluorescent lights overhead went out, leaving small lamps over the beds to shine down. Richie rubbed his eyes and asked, "You mind if I put the television on?"

"Go ahead," Joe said. "What's your name?"

"Richie."

"Richie, I'm sure your friend will be more interested in the fact you're okay than in the hospital bill."

"We'll see," Richie said, and used the remote control to put the television on. By the time the final credits on Baywatch finished, Joe guessed the kid had fallen asleep. He used his own remote to turn to a Nova special on music and jazz.

Richie wasn't asleep, but he was trying hard to be. He couldn't help but hate the fact Duncan hadn't even come to the hospital to visit. He must be really mad. When Richie finally did drift off into sleep he relived the basketball court, again and again, and the shock of his head hitting the ground. A female nurse woke him and asked him his name and address before making him to count numbers down from fifty. He went back to sleep, into a welcome darkness, and then the nurse came back to ask him the name of President and the days of the week. The third time someone woke him Richie almost yelled that he really needed some sleep, but instead of a nurse it was Duncan MacLeod.

"How you doing, tough guy?" the Highlander said softly in the near-darkness.

Richie struggled to sit upright, but Duncan's hands pushed him back. "What time is it?" Richie asked hoarsely. And, before he could stop himself, "Where have you been?"

"Sssh. You'll wake your roommate." Duncan gave a nod towards the drawn curtain and then slipped into the bedside chair. "It's after midnight," Duncan admitted, "and I had to sneak my way in."

"For me?" Richie asked groggily, pleased at the thought.

"Not for the food," Duncan retorted. "I'm sorry I couldn't come earlier. I had some business to take care of with an old colleague."

"What old colleague?"

"A very old one," Duncan said.

On the other side of the curtain, Joe silently cursed. He'd missed one of MacLeod's kills. How could he apply for the job of Regional Coordinator for the Northwest if he couldn't even keep up with his own Immortal?

"Oh. Well, you didn't miss much. Baywatch was on."

Duncan rolled his eyes. "I don't care about Baywatch, Richie. How's your head?"

"It's been worse," Richie said. "Better now, though."

A few minutes later Duncan left, promising to be back first thing in the morning. He went home, showered, and climbed into bed with Tessa. She didn't ask him about the bloodstains on his shirt, but instead wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly. The next morning they ate breakfast and then drove to the hospital to meet Dr. Powers, who was already in Richie's room and handing the fully-dressed teenager a prescription.

"You might have headaches for the next couple of days," Dr. Powers said, "but your tests are clear. Come back if there's any other problems. Good luck, Richie, and stay off that court for awhile."

"Ready?" Duncan asked, pleased to see Richie up and about.

"Lead on," Richie grinned. On the way out of the room he stopped by the closed bathroom door and cleared his throat. He couldn't remember the gray-haired man's name. "Umm . .. bye! Good luck with your stroke and everything."

"Thanks, kid!" a voice replied from inside. "You take care of yourself!"

Tessa and Duncan gave him a quizzical look. Richie shrugged. "My roommate. He really likes his privacy."

THE END

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