"Then who?"
"I don't know. Not yet. But I'm going to find out."
She was quiet for a time. Her breathing slowed.
"You're still not telling me everything," she said.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you can't stand up yet, and I'd rather you were standing when I do." He pulled back far enough to look at her. "I will tell you. I won't keep it from you for long. I swear that."
She searched his face. It was a tired face, an honest one. He hadn't tried to soften what he'd said or dress it up as anything else.
"Is it dangerous?" she asked. "What you're not telling me?"
"Not for you."
"For you?"
He didn't answer.
"That's what I thought," she said softly.
She lay back against the pillow. The window had gone from gray to pale gold. Somewhere outside, a bird started up, thin and clear.
"The medicine you gave me," she said. "Will I need it again?"
"Yes. For a while. A doctor will bring you down slowly. Weeks, maybe. Until it's out of you."
"And then?"
"And then you're free of it."
