Winding up, Kershaw let loose a pitch that was well over 90 mph, striking out the Diamondback at the plate to win the game for the Dodgers. The crowd cheered distantly over the TV as the announcers went on to talk about what a big win it was.

None of that mattered because Steve was watching the clock. Seconds ticked by inordinately slowly, somehow stretching well beyond their allotted time. At last the minute hand clicked over to the four. Only twenty-five more minutes to go, give or take.

He crossed his arms on his chest, rethought it, uncrossed them again. He'd given up pacing, it made the hospital staff nervous. Only twenty-five more minutes before the visiting hours started.

A nervous, reedy man in a chair next to him muttered, "Wish they let us smoke."

Steve frowned. "It's a hospital."

"Yeah, well, it's my wife in there." He glanced at Steve. "You?"

"My-- My friend."

And yet for a moment of painfully clear memory he saw the hurt and betrayal in Tony's eyes and heard him his: "So was I!"

He closed his eyes; pressed them shut against the memory and tried not to think about that. That was the past. What mattered was the here and now. What mattered was that he had gotten Tony here in time.

"What happened?" the man beside him asked.

Steve clenched his fist and finally said: "He was in an accident."