“I feel light-headed.” Dineas’s voice takes on a distracted quality. I watch his chest and count his breaths, making sure they don’t slow to the point of danger. His eyelids grow heavy. He opens his mouth to say something, but then his eyes roll to the back of his head. I catch him as he goes limp. He’s heavier than I expected, and it’s all I can do to keep him from slamming into the cot.

I sit with my fingers on his wrist, counting his pulse and his breaths, and sighing in relief when both are steady. As to what state his mind will be in, I can only wait and see. Little by little, the water clock in the corner slowly empties.

Finally, Dineas stirs in his sleep. I haven’t had a prayer answered in a long time, but I breathe a quick petition to the Goddess that all will go well. It’s strange how natural it feels to have a patient under my roof again. The breeze blows lightly in through my door and window, and I can hear leaves rustling outside. I’m glad for this good weather. It will ease the shock of his awakening.

His eyelids flutter and crack open. I sit up straight, my heart in my throat, every sense tuned in on him. He rolls his head from side to side, then looks straight at me. His expression is one of placid confusion.

“You’ve slept a long time,” I say, hoping my anxiety doesn’t show. “You’ll be groggy for a while.”

He looks from me to the rest of the cottage. “Where am I?”

“You’re safe,” I say. “What is your name?”

“I don’t remember.” But it doesn’t seem to bother him.

His memory’s gone. That’s the first hurdle passed. “It will come with time,” I tell him. I pat the cot underneath him. “What is this?”

He looks at me, puzzled at the question. “A bed?”

He’s obedient. I point to the table and cage across the room. “And can you tell me what you see?”

“I see a table. And a cage.” He flinches. “There’s a snake inside.”

I allow myself one small sigh of relief. I haven’t given him so much venom as to completely take away his knowledge of the world. “And tell me about yourself. What is your name? Where do you come from?”

“I’m not from here. Actually, I’m not certain. I’m twelve years old. No, twenty.”

He’s eighteen, actually. He told me.

“And you still don’t remember your name?”

His forehead creases in concentration. “No.” As the reality of this sinks in, agitation starts to take hold. He grabs at the sides of his cot and starts to push himself up, and I realize, with a bolt of panic, that I won’t be able to restrain him if he becomes belligerent.