Consciousness arrived not as a dawn, but as a slow, miserable tide crawling onto dry earth. Blackness, and then a dull, thudding pain that seemed to issue from the very nub of himself. Then, sensation: the soft roughness of wool against his cheeks, a clean, pale odor of soap and antiseptic cutting through the whiff of ghostly dust and defeat, and a sense of warmth beneath his head.
He opened his eyes. Everything was blurry, but he was looking upward at a painted ceiling he did not recognize. He was lying on a cot, his head in someone's lap. He rolled slightly, and a hand fell onto his forehead, cold and soothing.
"Don't attempt to move," a voice said. It was Sarah's.
He focused, his eyes clearing. She was looming over him, her face a topography of wrinkles of tiredness and worry. Her e
