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Back! Under it, a table laden with doughnuts, a coffee urn, a bowl of cut fruit. Cut fruit was evidence of advanced planning. I glanced over my shoulder at Corrine, who shrugged. Ambushed.
    “We were beginning to think you weren’t going to make it to your own party,” Woo said. The tweed, the hair gel. He was undergoing some sort of prescribed physical transition to senior faculty member. I hoped I hadn’t missed all of it.
    “I found her in Smith getting coffee,” Corrine said. “Like normal.”
    They laughed and jollied carefully against me until Doyle cleared a path with his voice. “Why don’t we let Amelia sit down?”
    I grabbed the nearest empty chair while they settled back to their positions. Cor sat next to me. Woo brought an extra chair to my left side. “In case you want to put your leg up,” he said.
    “No,” I said, glancing at the paper plate of pastries and fruit sliding across the table toward me. “That would hurt.”
    Woo finally set the chair down and circled the table to his own spot. They settled in around me, satisfied with themselves and the doughnuts.
    “I didn’t get shot in the leg.”
    They went quiet. One of the wise men—he looked crusty and presidential, so the name that came to mind was Van Buren—paused, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, a dusting of powdered sugar ringing his mouth.
    It was the cane. A cane was a simple thing. I was up and walking, talking, shrinking uncomfortably from human contact—Amelia Emmet, PhD, pretty much as they remembered me. Like normal, Corrine said. Except for the cane, and a cane could be ignored. It could also be misread.
    I’d predicted I’d be forced to talk about it, but now I could see why I wanted to. They didn’t understand. I needed one of those Zapruder film diagrams.
    “The bullet—”
    “We know, Amelia.” This from Doyle. There was something uncomfortable about him. He seemed stiff. Reserved. Not the Doyle who’d slept in my bed for two years, the Doyle who captained a 45-foot sailboat up and down the lake coast like he’d been born at sea, but also not the Doyle I’d worked for after we’d broken up. If it had been anyone else giving me the shut-up, I would have talked right over him. But if Doyle didn’t want me to ruin the surprise party by supplying any surprises, I would keep quiet. Maybe they did know everything there was to know. The Rothbert Reader had probably published info-graphic illustrations.
    “That’s what I did with my summer vacation. How about you guys?” I shoved an outsized chunk of pineapple into my mouth.
    There were exchanged looks down the table. All I cared about was Doyle. We regarded each other.
    “Van Meter and I gave invited talks in Slovakia in May,” one of the wise men said.
    Van Meter. Not Van Buren. I didn’t care.
    Van Meter managed to swallow the lump of doughnut packed into his jaw. “It was really quite a good time.”
    “Slovakia’s probably never seen the like,” I said. “What about the rest of you? I didn’t see anyone else on the intensive care unit, so you must have something to share.”
    “Amelia,” Corrine whispered.
    “Correction,” I said. “Dr. Talbot was there. She could work as a registered nurse at this point.”
    Woo leaned forward on his stately elbow patches. “I had the good fortune—”
    “Next. What about you, Doyle?”
    “Joss had a book out in July,” he said, gesturing down the table. “I’m sorry, Joss, I don’t remember the title.”
    I laughed. Corrine poked me in the side, and everyone turned to stare.
    “Are you OK?” said Caldwell or Baz; I couldn’t tell.
    “Am I crying?” I wiped at my face. It was dry.
    Corrine put her hand on my arm. “Are you in pain?”
    I was, but not yet the way I’d been in my office. This was worse in a way, because I wasn’t sure there was a pill I could take. What did insanity feel like?
    “Do you need some water?” Joss said. She hopped to her feet. I already had a full glass in front of