Got to stop the bleeding, Armor thought. But first he had to get the glass out. Some of the big pieces were only stuck in a little way, and he could brush them right off. But other pieces, some of the little pieces, were in deep, only a bit of their top showing, and that was slimy with blood so he couldn’t get much of a grip on it. Finally, though, he got all the glass he could find. Lucky enough there wasn’t a single cut a-pumping blood, which told Armor that the big veins hadn’t been cut. He stripped off his shirt, which left him naked to the waist with that cold draft coming in from the broken window, but he didn’t hardly notice. He just ripped up the shirt and made bandages. He bound up the wounds and stopped the bleeding. Then he sat there and waited for Thrower to wake up.

Thrower was surprised to find he wasn’t dead. He was lying on his back on a hard floor, covered up with heavy cloth. His head hurt. His arm hurt worse. He remembered trying to cut up that arm, and he knew he ought to try again, but he just couldn’t work up the same wish for death that he had felt before. Even remembering the Visitor in the form of a great lizard, even remembering those empty eyes, Thrower just couldn’t remember how it felt. He only knew that it was the worst feeling in the world.

His arm was bandaged tight. Who had bandaged him?

He heard the sloshing of water. Then the flopping sound of wet rags slapping against wood. In the winter twilight coming through the window, he could make out somebody washing the wall. One of the window panes was covered over with a piece of wood.

“Who is it?” asked Thrower. “Who are you?”

“Just me.”

“Armor-of-God.”

“Washing down the walls. This is a church, not a butcher shed.”

Of course there’d be blood all over. “Sorry,” said Thrower.

“I don’t mind cleaning up,” said Armor. “I think I got all the glass out of your arm.”

“You’re naked,” said Thrower.

“Your arm is wearing my shirt.”

“You must be cold.”

“Maybe I was, but I got the window covered and the stove het up. You’re the one with a face so white you look like you been dead a week.”

Thrower tried to sit up, but he couldn’t. He was too weak; his arm hurt too bad.

Armor pushed him back down. “Now, you just lay back, Reverend Thrower. You just lay back. You been through a lot.”

“Yes.