Chapter Sixteen
Art did not expect to wake. Certainly, he did not expect to wake comfortably ensconced in a private room in the Hab Three hospital, with bright daytime light pouring through the windows along with the sweet smell of honeysuckle.
Yet there he was, and there it was—and at the foot of his bed, even more astonishingly, was Avara.
He blinked just-opened eyes at her, swallowed, and whispered, “Let me guess. We’re both dead, and this is Skywatcher paradise?”
“Not quite,” she replied. She smiled, stood, and came to his bedside. “How do you feel?”
Art considered the question. He was terribly thirsty, the intravenous needle in his left arm itched, and beneath the skinseal liberally encasing his right side, there was a faint but definite ache, but actually, he felt amazingly well
