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Chapter 17
Chapter 17 On, on I go, (open doors of time! Open hospital doors!) The crush'd head I dress, (Poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,) The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet Through and through I examine, Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye, Yet life struggles hard. . —Walt Whitman, The Wound Dresser . MIKHAIL "Mikhail!" I bolt upright, my sword drawn to smite the lizard at the door. I strike at the phantasm, but my sword clinks against the wall, knocking me onto my back until I realize I am dreaming. I press my hands into my face, my heart rattling against my chest. "Máthair." I shiver uncontrollably, even though the dream has already faded. I can't remember anything about the woman who birthed me. She is a huge blank spot in my subconscious. Al
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