I settled my cane between my knees, feeling more and more proud of it, more protective of it by the minute. The cane had become a symbol of my commitment. I had been to the gates of Hell for this cane. No. I had endured Rosemary as my price to get well. I had paid my price, and received the cane as a bonus. The cane would help me reach my destination.

Of course I had a cane. Of course. One such as I ought to have a symbol of achievement, and having come from where I did, what could possibly be more fitting? . . . I rubbed my fingers lightly over the cast-brass scales . . .

“I’ve got a job waitin’ down at Carlsbad. My brother works down there, and he said they needed a little help, so he called me up. Pretty good, eh? I don’t even know what kind of job it is, but I trust him. My brother’s all right. He and I kind of look out for each other, know what I mean? At least it will be warmer than Colorado, I mean, Gawd, I wish he’d get me a job in Hawaii.”

I settled back, listening with a small slice of my consciousness while Winnie entertained herself talking of Hawaii, and I concentrated on the ache in my legs. The blowing heat felt like it was searing right into the meat of my calves. I felt the heat with my hand; it wasn’t very hot, or blowing very strong, so I knew it could be doing no damage. I closed my eyes and relaxed, then delved into the feeling of the pain to try to separate the different sensations.

The pain was almost like a musical chord, strumming in a universal key. The ache, which ebbed and flowed with each breath, strummed the same chord over and over. I could define each string, see the vibration of each separate sensation; I could see, in my mind’s eye, the strumming of the chord, but I could not see the hand that stroked the strings. I wondered if, by the very use of my will, I could snip the strings and thus be rid of the pain. Actually, the pain wasn’t really pain anymore—it was more like intense pressure. I had dissected the pain until it no longer hurt; much like saying the word “darkness” over and over and over again until it loses its meaning and becomes merely an absurd sound.

So. Pain could be controlled by the mind. Sarah would know about that, about yoga and mind control and all that. I would be her disciple.

Winnie droned on, obviously not caring whether I responded or not—as I never did—and the two of us in the little Volks­wagen drove through the cold New Mexican night toward Red Creek. Eventually, in the heat and the sound of her voice, I slept.