Rose bites down and, like a suckling calf, works her throat. A couple of tablespoons of tepid water reach her before a gurgle lets her know the bottle is empty. She keeps sucking convulsively until the boy gently pries the spout from her lips. There isn’t enough water to reach her throat, but her tongue is sufficiently wet. It no longer feels like beef jerky.

“Can you stand up?” the boy asks.

Rose nods. With his help she makes it shakily to her feet.

“Let’s get you fixed up,” the boy suggests. Matter-of-factly, he draws the hospital gown up around her shoulders. Moving behind her, he says, “You’ve got yourself all undone.”

Her gown is tugged straight as he ties the two ties in the back.

“Amazing boy” is all Rose can manage.

“When Dad’s aunt Clara got bats in her belfry we kept her at home,” he says. “There. Good as new.”

“My belfry is emptying. Bats are flying the coop. Mixed metaphor,” Rose says. “You—somebody—tell me where this is.” Rose feebly waves an arm and feels the gown pull open over her bottom. “This is so weird … It’s not summer. What—I don’t know…”

“You’ll be okay. Aden is going to get people to help you. Want to sit down?” the boy asks kindly.

Rose doesn’t want to sit down, but realizes she can no longer stand up. He helps her to a boulder near his fallen bike. Without his hand gripping her arm, Rose would collapse.

“Hey!” comes a shout. Two men in white coats burst out from an arch of trees a hundred yards away. “Hold her!” one of them shouts as they trot toward her and the boy.

“White coats,” she murmurs. “Where are the butterfly nets?” Terror slams into her, snatching the breath from her lungs. “No! No,” she begs, and clutches the boy’s hand. “There’s been a mistake. Don’t let them take me.”

“You’ll be okay now,” the boy says soothingly. “They’ll get you some water to drink, and get you all set.”

The men arrive. Both panting, both overweight, alike to one another as Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

“I think she’s super dehydrated,” the boy says. “I gave her some water, but it wasn’t much.”

“Thanks, kid,” the nearest Tweedle says. “We’ll take it from here.”

Rose can’t run. She can barely stand.

Expertly, they flank her. Each takes an elbow and a grip on the corresponding shoulder. Effortlessly, they lift her until her toes are skimming the ground, not like she’s a person, but like she’s a sack of lawn clippings being dragged to the curb.

“Wait,” Rose wails, kicking as ineffectually as a baby. “Damn you! Put me down!”