He wasn’t sure how he knew this. It was a quiet, odd sensation of sensing someone else breathing nearby, or someone else’s heartbeat ticking away just outside his hearing. His head felt clammy, inside and out—like someone had left his skull out in the rain. Every limb was numb, and deep within his ears he heard a persistent whistling that was not at all like ringing, except that it was equally irksome.

He opened one eye and blinked it.

The room was dim, but not completely dark, due to the two lanterns at opposite ends of the room. For the first time he saw it clearly enough to note a few details: a row of cabinets without doors stuffed with bottles, tinctures, bandages, and other assorted doctoring supplies; jars with peeling labels and contents the color of whiskey; a barrel of water with a tap and a bucket; rags, some folded and clean, others dirty and piled in a basket; a small crowd of unlit lanterns with mirrors to direct their light as necessary.

And in a chair against the wall a lean figure waited with sharp brown eyes and a long black ponytail. This figure leaned forward and said, “Good morning, Rector. Good afternoon, really. It’s almost dinnertime. Are you hungry? Thirsty? Do you want anything? Miss Mercy said I should get you whatever you asked for, if I could.”

On the one hand, Rector liked the sound of being given whatever he wanted. On the other, he was barely awake and rather confused. All he could muster in response was something like, “What?” And even that single word came out missing half its letters.

The other fellow left his chair and came to stand beside Rector’s bed.

“Water? Is that what you said?”

Close enough.

Rector nodded, realizing that he would like some water, yes, thank you. He struggled to lift his head off the pillow, and somehow dragged his elbow up underneath himself. “Thanks,” he mumbled as he took the offered mug. The water smelled awful and didn’t taste much better, but that only meant that it was local. The Blight gas had to be distilled out of the water for miles around Seattle to be safe, and even then it never tasted as fresh as a mountain stream … or even outhouse runoff.

Rector was used to it. He drank it down and didn’t complain. He’d had no idea how parched he’d become. He asked for more.

His companion obliged, and this time the young Chinaman sat on the foot of the bed while Rector drank down the tepid liquid. The Chinaman drew one leg up beneath himself and began to chatter.