Of course, I was wrong, as I was about everything back then. Entering the sick room was like leaving for breakfast with Teacher Purnell after studying all night. The library was the only room in the Schoolhouse without windows. In its false light, the pages of my reader glowed pale yellow, rather than white. And, over time, I would lose perspective. The false light became the sun, and their yellow lumination seemed bright, and white ceased to exist. Confronted with the glare of morning, I would fumble around for the senior table at breakfast. My eyes would eventually adjust. But, up until that moment of reconciliation, I was effectively blind.

That is how the sick room was for me. My mind, unable to reconcile with the horror of reality, simply ignored it. Looking back, I realize this impairment was my mind’s way of shielding me from what I might have done, had I grasped the wretchedness before me. I would have known the fever was more than I could hope to cope with. I would have seen, from the start, how the next few days would go. And filled with fear, I might have turned back.

“I need a desk,” I said, turning to William. “And a chair. Some place off to the side, where the storytellers can sit.”

“What you do?” he asked, not moving.

“I’m going to take their stories,” I said proudly. “Article 14.”

He blinked.

“It’s a section of the Compromise,” I went on, briskly—feeling superior. “It’s hotly debated, but, interpreted broadly, it just might anticipate untimely death, which would authorize a Record Keeper to take stories without the customary protocol.”

“You bring medicine?”

I blinked. “Uh, no, nothing like that.”

“You medicine man?”

“No, I told you. They don’t train us in medicine. It would be a waste of time. Kongos are possessed of a particularly good countenance,” I quoted. “We don’t get sick.” I cleared my throat, self-consciously. “That is, in theory. This is some sort of anomaly.”

He gave me a blank look.

My voice trailed off. “Look, William, I can’t heal their bodies, but I can give them new life after death. I can take their stories.”

“You take people, go to Hasting.” I could see he hoped there was medicine at Hasting.

“Well, we can’t actually go there. For that, one of the Record Keepers would have to issue an invitation.” I raised my quill. “But, with this, I’ll bring Hasting to them.”

He bent, pulled down his white mask, and sniffed the tip.

“Metaphorically,” I added.

He frowned.

“Just trust me. Clear off a table and set it in that corner.”

He straightened, replaced his mask and shook his head. “No table.”