Hogan’s clothes are in shreds. Nearly every millimeter of exposed skin is gouged and scratched, as though he had tried to dive through razor wire. Only the worst of his wounds seem to have been attended. The bandages swathing his left shoulder, arm, and right thigh more suggest a hurry-up job by a man on the run than hasty treatment by a roving Doc-Wagon. The remains of the bedsheets used to make those bandages lay in a heap in the doorway to the lav.