Carey’s eyes fluttered open slowly. The first thing he noticed was the gentle warmth surrounding him, the soft humming that resonated deep in his chest. He gasped, his hand instinctively clutching his stomach, but to his astonishment, he felt no pain. The dagger wound—the wound that should have ended him—was gone. For a moment, he thought he was still trapped in a dream, caught between life and death.
“Ram…?” Carey croaked, his voice raw and trembling.
Ram Babu, still kneeling nearby, threw himself at Carey’s side, tears streaming down his weathered face. “Sahib! You… you are alive! O Lord! You are alive! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” His words tumbled over themselves as he clutched Carey’s shoulders, as though holding him would anchor him forever to this world.
Carey looked around,
