My father sat in a chair in one corner of the room, refusing to let anything impede his view of me while he called the tribunal at the main lodge to give them an update. Dr. Carver rushed to and from my room, getting everything set to sew me up. He removed the shade from the lamp to give him as much light as possible. Then he arranged an assortment of medical supplies—scissors, flosslike thread, and a couple of other scary-looking instruments—on a clean white towel on the nightstand.

I flinched as he set an empty syringe on the towel, followed by a small, rubber-topped glass bottle. “What’s that for?”

Dr. Carver smiled gently when he saw the fear in my face. I’m not big on needles. They always seem to precede me being taken somewhere I don’t want to go. “That’s for our new guest. I’m going to force his Shift with a mix of adrenaline, and some other drugs.”

“Oh.” That made sense. We couldn’t let the stray wake up in cat form, because he’d be dangerous, hard to control, and impossible to handcuff. And because we had no cage in which to confine him. On two legs, he could be properly bound, thus unable to slice and dice anyone else.

“The rest of those are for me, though. Right?”

“Um…yes.” Dr. Carver zipped his nylon bag and sat on the empty bed facing me. “Is this your most serious injury in the line of duty?”

I tried to shrug, but even that slight movement hurt my stomach. “It’s the first to nearly disembowel me.”

Carver laughed. “Well, if that’s what he was going for, he did a very poor job of it. Your guts would never fit through these tiny holes. You’re gonna be fine. Sore for a while, and possibly scarred, but completely fine.”

“Thanks,” I said, and the doctor nodded brightly, then picked up the needle and the small glass bottle on his way into the living room to deal with the stray. And oddly enough, that comforted me more than his verbal assurances. My injuries couldn’t be too bad if he was willing to deal with the other guy first.

But then again, I wasn’t a threat to anyone. The stray was.

On his way out the door, Dr. Carver passed Marc, who carried a kitchen chair to my bedside then dropped into it and cradled my hand in both of his. With Marc there to keep me company, my father left to call my mother with an update from the semiprivacy of his own room.

“The doc’s right, you know.” Marc squeezed my fingers.

“How do you know?”