“That theory makes no sense—”

“Nazeera.” That sounds like Haider. “These are their healers. I’m sure they would know what—”

“I don’t care,” she says sharply. “I happen to disagree. Kenji’s been fine these last couple of days, and I would know; I was with him. This is an absurd diagnosis. It’s irresponsible to suggest that he’s being affected by drugs that were administered days ago, when the underlying cause is unequivocally something else.”

There’s a long stretch of silence.

Finally, I hear someone sigh.

“You may find this hard to believe, but what we do isn’t magic. We deal in actual science. We can, within certain parameters, heal an ill or injured person. We can regrow tissue and bone and replenish blood loss, but we can’t do much for . . . food poisoning, for example. Or a hangover. Or chronic exhaustion. There are still many ills and illnesses we can’t yet cure.” That must be Sara. Or Sonya. Or both. I can’t always tell their voices apart.

“And right now,” one of them says, “despite our best efforts, Kenji still has these drugs in his system. They have to run their course.”

“But— There has to be something—”

“Kenji’s been running on pure adrenaline these last thirty-six hours,” one of the twins says. “The highs and lows are devastating his body, and sleep deprivation is making him more susceptible to the effects of the drugs.”

“Is he going to be okay?” Nazeera asks.

“Not if he doesn’t sleep.”

“What does that mean?” J. Jella. Jello. That’s her voice. She sounds terrified. “How serious is the damage? How long could it take for him to recover?”

And then, as my mind continues to sharpen, I realize that the twins are talking in tandem, completing each other’s thoughts and sentences so it seems like only one person is speaking. That makes more sense.

Sara: “We can’t know for certain.”

Sonya: “It might be hours, it might be days.”

“Days?” Nazeera again.

Sara: “Or not. It really just depends on the strength of his immune system. He’s young and otherwise very healthy, so he has the best chance of bouncing back. But he’s severely dehydrated.”

Sonya: “And he needs sleep. Not drug-induced unconsciousness, but real, restorative sleep. The best we can do is to manage his pain and leave him alone.”

“Why did you do this to him?” Castle. Castle is here. But his voice is harsh. A little scared. “Was it necessary? Truly?”

Silence.

“Nazeera.” It’s Stephan.

“It felt necessary,” Nazeera says quietly. “At the time.”

“You could’ve just told him, you know.” J again. She sounds pissed. “You didn’t have to drug him. He would’ve been fine on the plane if you’d just told him what was going to happen.”

“You weren’t there, Ella. You don’t know. I couldn’t risk it. If Anderson had any idea Kenji was on that plane—if Kenji made a single sound—we’d all be dead right now. I couldn’t trust that he would remain inhumanly still and silent for eight hours, okay? It was the only way.”

“But if you really knew him,” J says, her anger changing, growing desperate. “If you had any idea what it was like to fight with Kenji by your side, you’d never have thought of him as a liability.”

I almost smile.

J always comes through. Always on the team.

“Kenji,” she’s still saying, “wouldn’t have done anything to compromise the mission. He’d have been an asset to you. He could’ve helped you more than you realize. He—”

Someone clears their throat loudly, and I’m disappointed. I was really enjoying that speech.

“I don’t think—” It’s one of the twins again. Sara. “I don’t think it’s helpful to place blame. Not now. And especially not in this instance.”

“Actually,” Sonya says, and sighs, “we think it was the news about James that pushed him over the edge.”

“What?” Nazeera again. “What do you mean?”

Sara: “Kenji loves James. More than most people know. Not everyone realizes how close they are—

“—but we used to see it every day,” Sonya says. “Sara and I have been working with James for a while, teaching him how to use his healing powers.”

Sonya: “Kenji was always there. He was always checking in. He and James have a special bond.”

“And when you’re that worried,” Sara says, “when you’re that scared, extreme levels of stress can badly injure our immune systems.”

Huh. I guess that means my immune system is screwed for life.

Even so, I think I’m feeling better. I’m not only able to distinguish the sounds of their voices, but I’m now realizing that there’s a needle in my arm, and it hurts like a bitch.

They must be giving me fluids.

I can’t really keep my eyes open yet, but I can try to force myself to speak. Unfortunately, my throat is dry. Rough. Sandpaper rough. It feels like way too much work to form complete sentences, but after a minute I manage to croak out two words:

“I’m fine.”

“Kenji.” I feel Castle rush forward, take my hand. “Thank goodness. We were so worried.”

“Okay,” I say, but my voice sounds foreign, even to myself. “Like spiders.”

The room goes quiet.

“What’s he talking about?” someone whispers.

“I think we should let him rest.”

Yes. Rest.

So tired.

Can’t move anymore. Can’t form any more words. I feel like I’m sinking into the mattress.

The voices dissolve, slowly expanding into a mass of unbroken sound that builds into a roaring, painful assault on my ears and then—

Gone.

Quiet.

Darkness.

Nine

How long has it been?

The air feels cooler, heavier. I try to swallow and, this time, it doesn’t hurt. I manage to peek through two slits—remembering something about spiders—and discover that I’m all alone.

I open my eyes a bit more.

I thought I’d wake up in a medical tent or something, but I’m surprised—and relieved, I think—to find that I’m in my own room. All is still. Hushed. Except for one thing: when I listen closely, I can make out the distant, unexpected sound of crickets. I don’t think I’ve heard a cricket in a decade.

Weird.

Anyway, I feel a thousand times better now than I did . . . was it yesterday? I don’t know. However long it’s been, I can honestly say I’m feeling better now, more like myself. And I know that to be true because I’m suddenly starving. I can’t believe I didn’t eat that cake when I had the chance. I must’ve been out of my mind.

I push myself up, onto my elbows.

It’s more than a little disorienting to wake up where you didn’t fall asleep, but after a few minutes, the room begins to feel familiar. Most of my curtains were pulled closed, but moonlight spills through an inch of uncovered window, casting silvers and shadows across the room. I didn’t spend enough time in this tent before things went to hell for me, so the interior is still bare and generic. It doesn’t help, of course, that I have none of my things. Everything feels cold. Foreign. All of my belongings are borrowed, even my toothbrush. But when I look out around the room, at the dead monitor stationed near my bed, at the empty IV bag hanging nearby, and at the fresh bandage taped across the new bruise on my forearm, I realize someone must’ve decided I was okay. That I was going to be okay.