And yet her body itches, prickling with sweat all over. Sweat that doesn’t quite emerge but remains secret, like a bruise, tucked onto the wrong side of her skin. The brick facade of St. Bernadette’s leans out toward her, and it seems only the blink of an eye since she was here last. She never left, and now the door is a mouth, tongue lolling out to swallow her whole.

She shakes her head, dislodging the thoughts, and takes a determined step forward. White stone crunches under her boot heels. She’s heard Jamieson doesn’t even work here anymore. Some illness, leaving the left side of his body weak, perhaps the same hidden illness that kept him out of the war. She wants to feel spitefully, vindictively glad, but she can’t summon either hate or pity, only apathy. Jamieson is nothing to do with her now; this isn’t her life anymore.

The sun beats down, turning the scar of the path blindingly white. Leaf-stripped branches stir overhead in a gust of wind, and puffs of condensation frost from her lips as Wendy walks toward the door. She doesn’t belong in this place; there’s nothing to be afraid of here anymore.

Her footsteps sound extremely loud as she crosses the threshold. The sudden transition from bright sunlight to the relative darkness inside throws her for a moment. She’s disoriented, and reaches a hand to steady herself.

“Miss?” A voice at her elbow, and Wendy jumps.

A nurse. A young one. No one Wendy recognizes.

“It’s Mrs.” The words come from her in automatic response. She’s said them so many times to herself, trying to convince herself or convince the world, and they still don’t feel like they belong to her.

“I’m here to see Mary—” Wendy’s voice breaks, and she hates that it does, wishing it were stronger. “Mary White Dog.”

She takes pleasure in saying Mary’s full name, her true name, not the one given to her here. The nurse frowns before turning away, leaving Wendy alone in the entryway, and Wendy smiles to herself. She makes herself look up, at the railing running along the second floor where the private rooms are. She and Mary snuck up there so many times. She could almost close her eyes, trace her steps through this place and not get lost. She keeps her eyes open, forces her hands down at her side.

“If you’ll follow me, please.” The nurse returns and gestures, and Wendy obeys.

Her gait feels oddly stiff, as though all at once she’s forgotten what walking means. Even though she knows he isn’t here, she just can’t stop herself expecting Jamieson to loom out of one of the doorways and catch her in a meaty hand. Ned had offered to come with her, for support, but she insisted on coming alone.

“If I don’t face this now,” she’d told him, “I never will. It’s important.”