Then the music lanced into his brain at a tremendous volume. George quivered in real pain as each note blared forth. It was the loudest version of the Warsaw Concerto he ever hoped to hear. As the music progressed, blatting its way through painful crescendos and screaming treble notes, he tried to shut out the sound of it. It was impossible. It was a tearing, screeching nightmare of sound, that put him back on a hurtling elevated train with the sound of a young girl's scream in his ears, and the pain of a body crushed beyond recognition. With a convulsive shudder, George was unconscious.

"Headache gone yet?" She was concerned.

Yeah, sweetheart. I'd like to wring your lovely neck, though.

"I'm sorry about the music, George. I didn't have the volume adjusted. I won't leave you alone again." There was a note in her voice that George hoped was more than just professional concern.

Karen! You don't have to do that! You'll be tying yourself down. And I don't want that.

"I don't mind, George. I just don't want anything to happen to you. You're something—someone special."

Maybe I don't want it that way. Although I will admit I enjoy your company—but this around the clock business isn't necessary.

"I want to do it. Okay?"

Okay. I guess I can't stop you. Only don't you ever get tired?

"Sometimes."

Maybe you should let me worry about your welfare for a change. I think you need some sleep. Lie down a little while.

"Sure, boss. Is that an order?"

It's an order.

"I guess I am a little sleepy. Want some music?"

George shuddered. No! No more records for a long, long time! But leave your microphone on—I like to know that you're there.

While she slept, he carefully kept his thoughts to himself. She's sleeping the sleep of the exhausted. The little nut, she probably didn't go to bed at all while I was—out. She deserves all the rest she can get.

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