There was no passing of time. If dreams disturbed Emmett’s sleep, he didn’t remember them. When he woke from time to time, shadows obscured the room around him and scant firelight flickered in a hearth nearby. He lay on a carpet of fur before the fire, a worsted blanket covering his naked body. Sometimes an old woman sat beside him, dark hair in long braids, face and hands worn smooth like leather. She tended his wound and spoke no words.
The only other person in the room was Jack. Whenever Emmett opened his eyes, his partner was there, hand in Emmett’s, concern etched into every feature. “You’ll be all right,” he promised. His deep voice was the only sound Emmett heard, waking or asleep. It sounded like the voice of God, watching over him, assuring him everything would be fine.
At some
