When I wake again some time later, there is a woman sitting in a chair by my bed. She has pretty strawberry-colored hair, a menagerie of crimps and curls and long, straight strands like spun wine that looks windblown and unkempt. She’s hunched over my hip, a healing laser held steady in one hand while her fingers smooth out the torn skin around my wound. I watch her work, detached—the pain has settled into a rhythmic throb that aches in time with my heartbeat, and the blue light from the tip of the laser leaves behind an echo of hurt as it weaves my muscles and skin back together again. When she shakes her head to brush the hair back from her eyes, she sees me staring at her and, for a second, her hands freeze on my leg, her touch gentle and healing. Her eyes widen slightly and, without tu
