I’m tending a patient in the front room one morning, and Dineas is there when I look up. He’s thinner than he was when he left. His cheekbones are more prominent, and his hair is longer. When he catches my eye, that familiar smile lights up his face. A warmth spreads through my limbs.

“Dineas!” I barely remember to pull off my apron before I’m running across the room. I throw my arms around him, and he laughs when I squeeze him tight.

“I think you’ve been taking lessons from that snake of yours.”

I just squeeze tighter. He smells of sand and soap. “I don’t know how Mehtap does it, waiting all the time for her father to return home.” I step back and hold him at arm’s length, taking in every piece of him. He has new bruises and scratches. The faint remnants of a greenish spot colors the side of his face. I scan the patient room, and then take his hand. “Come. The helpers should be able to keep everything under control for a while.”

He comes readily, and I can tell he’s just as eager to catch up as I am. There aren’t many places to stroll outside the hospital, but we walk along one of the narrow dirt roads. The only other people around are a group of children playing a game involving a stick, several large stones, and large wooden hoops. Their laughter rings like birdsong.

“Tell me about your journey,” I say.

His eyes go distant for a moment. “Ampara is vast,” he says. “And awe-inspiring. I wish you could have seen it all with me.” He starts talking of the dusty desert strongholds where they slept at night, the grasslands dotted with early spring wildflowers, the cold ocean spray of the Monyar sea caves. I drink it all in, captivated as much by his enthusiasm as the pictures he conjures. “I’m not doing it justice. I wish I could paint it for you. I’m not boring you, am I?”

“Not at all. I like seeing things through your eyes. I’m glad you’re making new memories for yourself.”

“Good memories and bad,” he says. Pain flashes across his face, and I realize that there’s a shadow to him now that hadn’t been there when he’d left on the mission. Not as much as the old Dineas, but more than before. I suppose there was no avoiding it, but it still feels like something rare and good has been lost.

“Not all your friends made it back,” I say.

He nods, looking away. “Naudar’s gone.”

“I’m sorry.”

Dineas fixes his eyes on the children at the end of the street. They’ve finished their game now and have settled down to share some snacks and catch their breath.