I lifted his head with one hand, quivering as I touched nearly dead flesh. I took my water bottle, hesitated, then put it to his lips. He swallowed senaba and choked, then opened his lips for more.

“My name’s Nick,” I said. “What’s yours?

“Cliff,” he whispered.

I held his head, gave him more senaba, and helped him to sit up. I took bread and fruit from my pack, pinching little bits with my fingers and putting them in his mouth. I called on travelers to help me get Cliff out of the ditch and onto the road.

“Sorry,” said a young man. “I’m on my way to Charis. No time.”

“I’m going to worship,” said another.

“I’m preparing to speak,” said another.

“I’m writing a book,” said another.

I stopped asking for help until I saw a familiar face coming back to get me. “Gordy!”

He helped me pull Cliff up and carry him down the road. The first few inns had no room. When we saw a house with a banner of the King hanging on the front porch, we knocked on the door. A woman answered.

“Can you put up our friend for the night?” I asked. “We’ll stay and tend to him.”

“The only extra bed we have is in my daughter’s room. She’s away, but … she has some nice things. We’re not really comfortable having strangers here.” She turned us away.

Finally we found an inn with no vacancies, but they offered a mattress in a storage room with an adjoining sink and toilet.

Gordy and I gave Cliff a sponge bath, washed him, helped him use the toilet. At first I was uncomfortable and embarrassed. But as the night went on, all I did seemed very small. Especially when I thought about the misery the Woodsman endured to relieve me of my suffering for all time.

I took Gordy aside. “You can spend the night with the others,” I told him. “Tell them I’ll rejoin you when I can. But I don’t expect you to wait—you can go on without me.”

Cliff fell asleep. At first I curled up in a corner, but I was so exhausted I was afraid I wouldn’t hear him if he called for help in the night, so I lay beside him on the mattress.

I awoke several times to his moaning and put a cool washcloth to his head.

A wound on his forearm kept weeping. I wiped the blood away, but it got all over my hands. When I washed them off, I discovered I’d cut myself on my right hand. Cliff’s blood and mine had mixed.

In the morning I went to a merchant and traded my hiking boots for some older ones and a set of decent clothes in the old man’s sizes. There my traveling companions found me.