Howard awoke to a continuous beep. It was a certain pitch – high enough to do your head in but low enough to not bother you until it did your head in. It took him a few seconds to realise it was the beep of a machine you'd find in hospitals.

He lolled his head to the side, blinking his eyes open. Blurs became lines and then features. A figure swam into view – immaculate jeans, a grey scoped t-shirt and worn office shoes. A greying beard, hard lines around the mouth from worry.

"Dad?" Howard croaked. He tried to move his head but it felt like a stone weighing him down.

"Howard!" came his father's voice. He sprang from the chair and towards the bed, clasping his son's arm. "Howard, christ, you're awake!"

Howard eased his head around slower this time, surveying the greying walls, the clear wires that extended from his bed to the beeping machine. He was lying on a hard mattress and his head felt too far back due to the lack of pillows.

"Is this a hospital?" Howard mumbled. "Why am I in a hospital? I'm not sick, dad."

His father's eyes cast downwards in dismay. "You took a nasty bump, How."

"Did I?"

His dad exhaled loudly. "Don't you remember?"

Turning away from his father's expectant gaze, Howard frowned. And then he caught sight of his left arm, which was covered in bandages and soaked a light pink. It was a stump, cut off where his wrist should be.

And then he remembered dangling out of Eleanor's window. He remembered Carabella staring down at him. He remembered her calm demeanour as she pressed her gun to his hand and fired.

"I don't have a hand," Howard said. "Dad, look, my hand—"

"I know son," his father interjected, smoothing down the bedsheets. "It took a bullet but it got infected and had to be amputated but—"

"You call this a nasty bump?"

"Son—"

"I don't have a hand!" Howard snapped, raising the stump as proof. "You call this a hand? I call this a stump!"

"Howard, calm down. I know it's a shock but the doctors said you could get a prosthetic. It won't work quite the same but at least you'll be less handicapped."

Howard stared at the pink bandage. More memories came flooding in. Will on the other side of the door, Eleanor cowering under the bed—

"Elle," he said suddenly. "Where's Elle?"

His father's eyebrows furrowed. "Who?"

"Eleanor. Eleanor Coyle."

"I don't understand—"

"Eleanor. Blonde-haired woman. She was in the house with me, dad – she cleaned up my vomit."

His dad looked perplexed. "I don't know, son. All I know is that you fell from a three-story window with your hand blown off, broke three ribs, and your grandma—"

"Ma—"

"She"—his father stopped suddenly, drawing a hand to his mouth—"No, I can't tell you."

"Tell me, dad," Howard insisted. "What happened to Carabella?"

Tears were welling in his dad's eyes. Howard raised his stump but couldn't wipe them away.

"She's dead," his father croaked. "She was shot in the head at close range apparently. They found alcohol in her system."

"Who shot her?"

"She did," replied his father, a tear running down his cheek. He brushed it away. "Police barged into the room and she'd been holding the gun to her temple. She said that her work was done. She'd brought justice to the world, and then she—" he stifled a sob, motioning a gun firing. Howard nodded grimly.

"It's okay," his dad choked. "You're okay. That's all that matters."

Howard held onto his father tightly as he cried. It was all over, he realised. Thank God it was all over.

A nurse came in and informed his father that the time slot for visitors was almost up. Howard clung to his dad, who wiped his face, and nodded.

"Get some sleep, Howard," he said. "I'll see you in the morning."

Howard nodded and watched his father leave the room. Then he lay back and rested his head against the flat pillow. Tiredness came over him again and he gave in to it, letting the beep of the machine wash over him.

His last thought before he fell asleep was:

At least I'm not left-handed.