"Hey you ole bushwacker!" His old friend sprang toward him. They met in a genuine embrace of affection.
"Where'd you come from?"
"Got tired of waiting for you at Leipzig. Put out some feelers ... found out you were out here. So I came on out."
"Glad you did man, glad you did," his elation suddenly sobered, he nodded toward the hospital bed. "How's our patient?"
"Ask him yourself," Sledge jerked his thumb toward the prone figure of their mutual friend. "Go ahead."
Rage hesitantly moved over to the bedside, reached out and gently touched Kreg on the arm. "Hey buddy."
Kreg was wrapped in a medical cocoon, only his face visible. There didn't seem to be much life in him, pale face, shallow breath. Rage looked back over his shoulder at Sledge, who jerked his chin back toward the bed. Rage turned in time to see Kreg's eyes fluttering open. His tongue slipped out of his mouth and wet his lips, a wan smile forming there. "Now I know I'm alive..." he whispered in a low, hoarse voice, "no angel in heaven ever looked as ugly as you two."
Rage and Sledge looked at each other. Concern slipped into amusement, which gave way to ecstatic laughter. Their laughter went on long and hard, brought on as much by relief as it was by humor...