He wakes to a clap of thunder and a rushing pain.

Things come to him in waves.  The boat.  The guns.  Fulton’s furrowed brow.  Heat roils around him, a feverish anger.  It’s like his heart’s pumping hot oil.

“You’re awake,” says the old woman.  Her chair creaks, and she stands over him, a blur in the faint light.  “Can you talk?”

“Yes,” he says, but only a gasp escapes.  There’s poison in his lungs.  His eyes flick and roll.

“Try to rest,” she says, and presses something next to him.  Just before the black crashes down, he sees Fulton’s eyes.


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