He slept, and when he opened his eyes again, some unknown interval of time having passed, he knew that he was in a bed, that the bed was in a room, and that he wasn’t alone. Lifting his head was out of the question; his bones felt as heavy as iron. He was in some kind of infirmary, white walls and white ceiling, angled beams of white light falling upon the white sheet that covered his body and beneath which, it seemed, he was naked. The air was cool and moist. From a place somewhere above and behind came the rhythmic throb of machinery and the drip of water falling into a metal pan.

“Michael? Michael, can you hear me?”

Seated next to his cot was a woman—he thought it was a woman—with dark hair short as a man’s, and a smooth brow and cheeks and a small, thin-lipped mouth. She was gazing at him with what appeared to be intense concern. Michael felt as if he’d seen her before, but his sense of recognition stopped there. Her slender form was draped in a loose-fitting orange costume that seemed, like everything else about her, vaguely familiar. Behind her was some kind of screen, obscuring his view.

“How do you feel?”

He tried to speak but the words seemed to die in his throat. The woman lifted a plastic cup from the table by his bed and held the straw to his lips: water, crisp and cold, distinctly metallic in taste.

“That’s it. Sip slowly.”

He drank and drank. How amazing, the taste of water. When he had finished, she returned the cup to the table.

“Your temperature’s down. I’m sure you’ll want to see your friends.” His tongue felt slow and heavy in his mouth. “Where am I?”

She smiled. “Why don’t I let them explain that to you?”

The woman disappeared behind the screen, leaving him alone. Who was she? What was this place? He felt as if he’d been asleep for days, his mind adrift on a current of disturbing dreams. He tried to remember. Some fat woman. A fat woman breathing smoke.

His thoughts were broken by voices and the sound of footsteps. Peter appeared at the foot of his bed. His face glowed with a grin.

“Look who’s awake! How are you feeling?”

“What … happened?” Michael croaked.

Peter took a seat by Michael’s bed. He filled the cup again and held the straw to Michael’s lips. “I guess you don’t remember. You had heatstroke. You passed out in the truck.” He angled his head toward the woman, who was standing to one side, silently observing. “You’ve already met Billie, I guess. I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up. We’ve all been taking shifts.” He leaned in closer. “Michael, you’ve got to see this place. It’s fantastic.”