But as he moved away from the Infirmary, into the afternoon, an unexpected heaviness came over him. He supposed it was only natural—up half the night and then a morning like the one he’d had, so much to do and say and worry over, so many things to consider. People often joked about the Household, that it wasn’t a real job, one of the trades, Watch or HD or Ag—it had been Theo Jaxon who had dubbed it “the plumbing committee,” a joke that had cruelly stuck—but that was because they didn’t know the half of it, the responsibility. It weighed on a person; it was a load you carried and never quite put down. Sanjay was forty-five years old, which wasn’t young, but as he moved down the gravel path, he felt much older.

At this time of day, Old Chou would be in the apiary—never mind that the gates were closed; the bees would care nothing about that. But the thought of the long walk over there, under the high, hot sun of midday, and whom Sanjay might encounter along the way and be forced to talk to, filled him with a sudden weariness like a gray mist in his brain. He decided it then: he had to get off his feet. Old Chou would keep. And almost before he knew it, Sanjay found himself moving at a slow trudge through the shadowed glade in the direction of his house, then stepping through the door (he listened for the sounds of Gloria elsewhere in the house, detecting nothing), climbing the creaking stairs under the eaves with their cobwebby corners, and lying down in bed. He was tired, so tired. Who knew how long it had been since he had let himself take a nap in the middle of the day.

He was asleep almost before he’d finished asking himself this question.