She stood in the doorway of room 4117 for a long moment before she went in. He was propped up in bed in a hospital gown printed with cartoon whales, small and pale, a dressing down the center of his chest and wires running from him to a stand of machines that beeped softly in the corner. His red headphones were on. His folder lay on the blanket over his knees, his hands flat on top of it. Marcus sat in the chair by the window. Walt Ferris stood at the foot of the bed in a civilian windbreaker and a ball cap, and when he saw Celeste in the doorway his face did not change at all.
"Theo," Marcus said, "this is Celeste. From the airplane. You remember. She has something of yours."
Theo did not look at her. He looked at a point somewhere over her left shoulder.
She came forward slowly. She didn't go to the bed. She stopped at the little rolling table beside it and set the manila envelope down there, flat, and slid the drawing out, and turned it so it faced him, and stepped back.
"I'm sorry I took your folder," she said. "It wasn't mine to take. I found this on the floor of the plane after you got off. I kept it safe for you."
Theo's eyes moved, slowly, from over her shoulder to the drawing. He looked at it for a long time. Then he reached out with one hand, careful of the IV line, and picked it up, and studied it, and opened his folder—rrrip—and found its place among the other drawings, and pressed the Velcro shut.
"Flight four," he said, to the folder. "Now it's in order."
That was all. He didn't look at her again.
Walt walked her out to the elevators. They stood waiting, side by side, in silence.
"Marcus tells me you sat in his waiting room," Walt said. "The whole day."
"Yes."