Opening my eyes required deliberate effort. When I did, I knew the room was part of an old farmhouse. I’m not sure why, except that it reminded me powerfully of where Dorothy woke up at the end of The Wizard of Oz. It even had checked curtains, open to the sun.

I was lying in a narrow bed between smooth, thick sheets. I’d been undressed, washed, and bandaged; probably several times by now, I realized. That made me uncomfortable, but I was too exhausted even to twitch.

I turned my head a little, and met the inquiring gaze of another person. He was built like a block of red sandstone, not particularly tall but wonderfully square. His hair was black and white in equal measure, and his broad red-brown face was lined on the forehead, at the corners of his eyes, in two brackets around his wide mouth. He wore a faded cotton shirt rolled up to the elbows and faded trousers. “Are you really awake,” he said in a voice surprisingly light for the shape of him, “or are you still out walking?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

“No, you’re back. Probably not for long, which you shouldn’t worry about. I’m Josh Marten, head people doctor around here. Sherrea said I should tell you right away that she’s here, and your friends Theo and Frances as well, and that they’re safe.”

I closed my eyes in relief, because I’d just begun to wonder, and didn’t think I had the strength to make the words.

He crossed the room and laid a hand on my forehead. But it was a cool, dry hand, and I was too tired to mind. He took my pulse at my throat. “I think you’re done making me work so hard. Answers to other questions I’ll bet you have: You’ve been here three days. None of the damage was permanent, thanks to me. And this is about the best you’ll feel for a while, because when your painkillers wear off, I’m going to stop giving them to you during the day. You’re going to hate that, but it’s better than making an opium fiend of you. Now, go back to sleep.”

I closed my eyes and slid out from under the burden of thought.

When I woke again, there was a battered upholstered chair pulled up to the foot of the bed, with Frances in it. Her feet were up on the seat cushion, jammed against one arm, and her knees were propped on the other. Her head tilted sideways against the chair back. She was sleeping. The crescent moons of her eyelashes, under her straight black brows, looked like obscure mathematical symbols. Her mouth was closed and severe even now. One hand was curled around her ankles; the other arm trailed over the side of the chair to brush the floor. I was willing to bet her feet had gone to sleep.

Her eyes opened, as if I’d made a noise. “Good afternoon,” she said, a little hoarse. “As you see, they didn’t throw me overboard and keep the bribe. Though you might be wishing they had.”