"You poor bastard."

I struggled wearily back to consciousness. I felt, roughly speaking, like shit. I didn't remember a goddamned thing about where I was or how I had gotten to be there in the first place . . . thankfully, the question of who I was was still one I knew the answer to.

When I opened my eyes, Leon's face swam blurrily into focus as the light crashed into the backs of my eyes. He sighed and shook his head. "Why didn't you say something?"

"What?" I blinked, trying to make sense of my surroundings. I sat up and clutched my head in my hands; the sheet that had been laid over me fell and puddled in my lap.

"I figured you'd have a headache," he said quietly. "How much do you remember?"

"Urgh." I swallowed; my mouth was dry and tasted musty, misused, old. "I don't know."

He sighed. "You fainted on my doorstep."

"Oh." I blinked. That . . . while it didn't make sense entirely, it made some sense, which was progress if nothing else.

"Any idea why that might have been?" he asked.

"No," I said, shaking my head from side to side.

"At least you were wearing clothes," he said, almost meditative in tone.

"What?" I said, not believing what I had heard from his mouth. This was not the Leon I knew . . . if I even knew the real Leon. I realized that the Leon I had met at the meeting was probably nothing like the actual Leon in terms of personality.

"When you move in the circles I move in . . ." He let his sentence trail off, and walked out of my range of vision. " . . . you become accustomed to the strangest things," he finished, stepping back into my limited field of view.

Suddenly, instead of Leon's half-familiar face, I saw a girl. I struggled to get off the couch; the girl needed my help, and the sooner, the better.

"Yuri?" Leon's voice was dim and far away.

"She needs help," I gasped, trying to get to my feet. "She's in t- t- trouble," I said, and then everything went hazy as the acidy taste of bile rose in my throat and I hit the floor.

When I woke up, Leon was shaking me by the shoulder, and I judged that I hadn't been out long. My face was wet, dripping water, and I touched it tentatively.

"I wanted to wake you up," said Leon, a little sullenly.

"So you threw a bucket of water on me?" I said, incredulous -- probably rightly so, too.

"Well, yes," he admitted, sounding a little guilty. Which was not enough -- I seemed to be wearing my good shirt and waistcoat, and now they (and I) were sopping wet. I was . . . more than a little bit angry. All right, I admit it, I was very angry . . . despite the tiny, irrational part of my mind that insisted I really ought to thank him because he had, after all, essentially just washed my clothes for me. But that didn't make any sense, and I made a note to give that part of my mind a sound thrashing once I had a moment alone with it.

I found this inexplicably hilarious, and I giggled a little until Leon lost patience with me and slapped me across the face.

"What was that for?" I asked. "I was laughing."

He looked at me in a way that I recognized -- the sort of look Nathaniel had given me once, while we were still aboard ship, when one of my wounds (now scarred over, thankfully, but still occasionally painful) had begun to bleed again. He had unleashed a stream of curses at me and ripped a spare shirt into makeshift bandages, which he used to bandage the wound while admonishing me in most indecorous terms to, next time, inform him when my wounds reopened or I began to fell ill, before something disastrous happened to me.

Clearly, I had learned exactly nothing from that experience.

"You," he pronounced with excess gravity, "have a problem."

Which sent me off into yet another bout of the snickers until he threatened to throw another bucket of water over me, which reduced my hilarity to an insuppressible smile that gradually faded over the next minutes . . . though I still released the occasional snicker, unable to help myself.

It was all very, very funny.

I didn't know why it was funny -- in fact, it seemed like it had no right to be funny -- but I found it utterly hilarious.

"Really," he said. "I'm serious. Why haven't you seen a doctor?"

I restrained my snickers and put on my very best poker face. "I didn't know I was . . . sick . . . until I woke up here," I pointed out. That was true. Even though the last thing I clearly remembered was the meeting where I had met Leon . . . but I didn't need to mention that. It would just make Leon worry . . . and why was I concerned over whether or not Leon worried about me?

"What's the last thing you remember before waking up?" he said. "The truth, Yuri," he added. "I'll know if you're lying."

"No, you won't," I pointed out, quite reasonably in my opinion. "We barely know each other."

"What's the last thing you remember before waking up here?" he asked, as if he were speaking to a dull child.

"Oh, all right," I said, sullenly. "The meeting."

He looked at me in alarm, then said, "Get up."

"What?" I said. "Why?" I remained where I was -- I didn't remember how, but I was sitting on the couch again, more or less half-upright.

"Because I said," he said grimly, and a little petulantly.

"Well, why?" I said, feeling like the reasonable one in the conversation. "I barely know you, why should I do what you say?"

"Because," he said, crossing his arms, "you're in my flat -- you fainted on my doorstep -- you're lying on my couch -- and I didn't have anything to do with any of that." He thought for a moment. "Well, all right," he admitted, "so I'm the one who brought you in."

"So all I did was faint on your doorstep," I said. "You're the one who dragged me inside."

"Well, I wasn't going to leave you passed out in the hallway," he said defensively.

"Why not?" I asked, in as innocent a voice as I could muster.

"My neighbors would get suspicious," he said.

"Are you hiding something?" I demanded.

He looked at me sternly. "You," he declared, "are going to a doctor, right now."

"No, I'm not," I protested. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Then why are you still on my couch?" he asked. It was a rather reasonable question. "I know for a fact it's not a comfortable couch, so you're not staying there because it's comfortable."

"Of course not," I said, which didn't make much sense at all, even considering the strange situation. "I'm just staying here because this is where I am."

"I repeat," he said. "I'm taking you to a doctor."

"Who are you, my mother?" I muttered.

"Look." I sighed. "Just let me get up off your couch and then I'll leave and it'll all be fine, all right?"

"No, you are not all right," he said, "but you won't let me prove it to you." He gestured to the door. "Go ahead. Leave."

"Then I will," I said, somewhat overconfidently, and stood up.

The floor then proceeded to decide it didn't want me to leave the apartment, and I fell to the ground. Or not really the ground, as such -- for some reason I thought of his apartment as being on the second or third floor of a building -- but the floor, anyway.

"I told you so," said Leon, somewhat smugly. I really didn't blame him.

"Look, that was a fluke," I protested, and got up off the floor.

That time I made it to the door before collapsing.

"Clearly, you need to see a doctor," noted Leon, as he watched me struggle back upright, this time using the wall as a support.

"All right, all right," I said. "You've proved your case. So are you going to take me to a doctor or not?"

He eyed me dubiously. "I know a fellow whose office is just down the street."

"Good," I said. "Let's go."

"You're going to have to walk," he said, still in a dubious tone.

"All right," I said, still leaning on the wall. "Then let's go."

After I had struggled my way down the stairs -- thanking the builders of the place for including a railing -- after I had made my way out the front door, but before I collapsed into the mud, Leon said something that normally would have elicited a violent response from me:

"Wouldn't you rather lean on me?"

I looked at him, then at the mud, then at the street we'd have to walk down to get to the doctor. Muddy. Nothing for me to lean on.

"All right," I snapped. "But if you ever breathe a word of this . . ." I trailed off, trying to sound threatening as I threw my arm over Leon's shoulder and adjusted my balance.

"Yuri, my dear boy," he said with a laugh, "this is Alaska! No one cares what you do here, once you've gotten back home, wherever home may be."

We set off through the mire down the street. Thankfully, it appeared to have stopped raining some time before, so at least I wasn't any wetter than I'd been after Leon dumped the bucket of water on me.

And Leon kept talking. He had a tendency to do that, I would find in the weeks ahead. After all, he wrote speeches.

"And if it's your reputation you're worried about," he said, smiling, "well, a term in Alaska is nothing, nothing at all -- it'll make you seem dashing once you get back home! The ladies will simply flock to you -- just make up a few ripping tales of adventure and you'll have a devoted entourage, ready to follow you anywhere."

The idea did not appeal to me, but I felt an obligation to hold up my end of his monologue, if only to make him feel that he was holding a conversation, not giving a stage monologue. "Leon," I grumbled, "has it ever occurred to you that I'll be almost thirty when I get back home?"

"Oh, that's nothing!" he said, gaily. "Why, many's the man of great talent who didn't get a start on his life's work until he was thirty -- some not until they were fifty or more." He patted me on the shoulder. "Don't worry one bit."

"Oh, that's what you say," I said crossly.

"Yes, it is what I say," he said, perhaps a little more playfully than was rational. "Because I just said it."

"Are you sure you're not sick yourself?" I asked. It seemed a reasonable question.

"Oh no, of course not," he said cheerily. "I'm fit as a fiddle, me."

"As opposed to me?"

"No," he said, "you're really not looking so good right now." He examined the door he had stopped in front of, then beamed at me. "Ah. Here we are," he said, and practically shoved me inside.

I took a seat in the nearest chair I could reach, a surprisingly nice chair, for a doctor's office, and for Alaska -- most of the things I had encountered in Alaska had been shabby and run-down (witness my own overcoat, boots and knapsack, as well as most of my clothing). It was brown, not leather, but cloth, of a weave that I didn't recognize with delicate little pale-pink flowers embroidered on it. There was a dark, rusty stain on the left armrest, which I tried to persuade myself was something innocuous, and most certainly not blood.

And it was breathing.

Well. Not as such.

But the surface of the chair definitely appeared to be moving in and out. I blinked and stared at it. It was entrancing, amazing, hypnotic . . .

Leon grabbed me by the arm and hauled me bodily into the back room while I feebly protested that he really had to take a look at that chair.

I sat down, feeling more than a little unstable, on the chair Leon steered me into. I made no protest; I was still somewhat occupied in marveling over the chair. It was breathing. Amazing.

"And why have you brought him here?" demanded an unfamiliar voice. I didn't look up, but I presumed it to be the doctor. I hadn't even bothered to notice the name on the door. "He looks . . . well, I can't say he looks healthy, but I've seen men look worse."

"He fainted on my doorstep, Nathan," said Leon, and I looked up into eyes that were all too familiar.

Of course. It had to be Nathaniel Hockley.

"So," I said brightly. "You're a doctor now, are you? Where did you find the time to finish school?"

My former . . . well, he wasn't my friend. My acquaintance, then, sighed and looked at Leon before pressing the back of his hand to my forehead. "He's running a fever, Leon," he said, accusatorily.

"I am?" I said. "Really?"

"Yes, really," said my former acquaintance, absently. "And why is his hair wet?" he said, directing his question at Leon.

"Well, I dumped a bucket of water on him," Leon admitted, somewhat sheepishly -- but not as sheepishly as I'd have liked him to.

"What for?" demanded my former acquaintance.

"Well, he'd fainted again," said Leon, as if he were defending himself -- which, I suppose, he was. "On my floor instead of on my doorstep, but that's kind of a moot point, isn't it?"

My former acquaintance sighed and cradled his head in his hands. "Christ."

"He's not here right now," I said, mainly because it seemed like a bright idea, "but can I take a message for you?"

"And why was he in your flat in the first place?" said my former acquaintance, and the tone of his voice suddenly reminded me of the attempt he'd made on my life. But that had been so long ago, and now he was a doctor. Surely he wouldn't kill me because I'd cracked an impudent joke? No, I decided, he wouldn't, because that was crossing a line. Even murderers had standards . . . or, well, so I supposed. I'd never had the chance to ask one.

"Well, I wasn't going to leave him out in the corridor!" said Leon, growing defensive again.

"Why didn't you just bring him here?" asked my former acquaintance, head still cupped in his hands. He sounded tired, less than murderous, now. I suspected he had changed since last I knew him. Of course he had. Who was I kidding? Given a year, anyone would change . . . could change . . . hell, what did it matter, anyway?

"I wanted to make sure he wasn't drunk," said Leon, a little sullen.

"Why would he have chosen your apartment to arrive at while drunk?" asked my former acquaintance, now sounding somewhat annoyed by Leon's antics.

"I'd given him my address earlier," said Leon, and I found the high pitch of his voice suddenly quite humorous. I snickered a little bit, but was, this time, careful to keep the sound under my breath and as far from audible as possible.

"Why did you give him your address?" asked my former acquaintance.

"We met at a meeting," said Leon, and I snickered a little again, though managing -- barely -- to restrain myself from an outright gale of laughter. Oh, it was all so funny.

"A meeting for what, Leon?" said my former acquaintance, beginning to sound a little testy. I knew the danger signs of his bad moods . . . or, at least, I once had. Now I wasn't quite certain. But I figured that he was probably getting a little frustrated with Leon by now. I would have been, at any rate.

"I can't tell you that," Leon hissed, in a low tone. "You know I can't tell you that."

"All right, all right," said my former acquaintance, trying to appease Leon's budding hysteria . . . and I began to snicker once more, remembering the treatment for hysteria, as it had once been. "Hysterical paroxysm" and all that . . . heh, heh. I found it quite amusing, though I knew it was juvenile of me. "So you can't tell me where you met him or why you gave him your address, but . . ."

"He gave me the address so that I could talk with him later," I said, suddenly.

"Why did he think you'd want to talk with him later?" my former acquaintance asked me. I felt a bit like a mouse in the gaze of a snake . . . rapt, unable to make a move. Mice probably didn't feel this utterly dumb and idiotic, though. More likely just trapped.

"Well, I'd liked the speech he'd read at the meeting I met him at," I said.

"Ah," said my former acquaintance. "Can you remember what the speech was about?"

I could almost hear Leon telling my former acquaintance that he couldn't tell him what the speech was about, but I ignored the feeling and went cheerily on ahead, full steam:

"Oh, no, I don't remember a think," I said. "Not one word about it. But it was a fery good speech, I remember that much."

"Leon," prompted my former acquaintance gently, "do you remember what the speech was about?"

"What does this have to do with this . . . this idiot's condition?" said Leon, considerably agitated right now.

"Just tell me, please," said my former acquaintance in a soothing voice. "Tell me what your speech was about."

"Gardening," said Leon sullenly. I could hardly believe my ears.

"And what about gardening do you think your . . . er, friend here found so enrapturing?"

"Fucked if I know," said Leon crassly. "Why won't you just tell me what's wrong with him, instead of cross-examining me? I didn't kill anyone," he said, "if that's what you're after."

"All right, all right," said my former acquaintance, still trying to pacify Leon, who I had begun to notice was a rather high-strung man for one so young.

"He's got a fever," continued my former acquaintance. "I'd say take him home -- back to his own home, that is . . ."

At which Leon flushed a bright, altogether inexplicable red.

". . . and then leave him to heal. I can't do much of anything about it, unless you'd like me to ring up a priest or an old religious woman to say prayers for him."

"I'm not religious," I said, feeling particularly sullen, though for no particular reason at all. Nothing seemed to have logic behind it, not then. Everything seemed disconnected from itself, close to being nonsensical but not quite so . . . magical, the way things presented themselves to me. Unreal, but at the same time superreal. As if they existed in their own rationality, their own world, by their own set of rules, independent of this world and its rules, entirely unfettered by the demands of the mortal coil . . .

"Well," said Leon. "Let's go, then."

"All right," I said, and stood up, still weak and wobbly on my feet. Leon sighed and offered me his shoulder to lean on for the walk home.

"So which street is your apartment on?" he asked.

"I . . . can't remember," I admitted. "Well, I do remember, but I don't know how in the world I got to your flat from there."

Leon groaned. "Oh, fantastic. If only we could get ahold of that girl you're staying with . . ."

"I told you about Sonia?" I said, surprised. I didn't remember doing so.

"Yes, at the meeting," he said irritably.

"You didn't tell me he couldn't walk unsupported!" shouted my former acquaintance, and we turned back to look at him. It had begun to drizzle, and he stood out on the boardwalk in front of his door, an old newspaper -- for that was the only kind to be got in Alaska -- over his head in lieu of a hat.

"Well, now you know!" Leon shouted back, clearly in an ill temper, perhaps even in a worse mood than my former acquaintance, who seemed to have calmed down since I knew him, when he had been so volatile he was dangerous to be around.