Langston woke on a mild morning to the sweet smells of his mother's cooking. He rose from his cot and hummed to himself as he dressed, stepping briskly to the outhouse before the meal.

Almost to the door, he saw a figure rise from behind a jumble of building tools propped beside the outhouse. He went to stand authoritatively close to this stranger, about to demand that they leave.

"Lang…It took all, all night to, to find you," a weak, feminine voice sounded from beneath a ragged sheet of cloth. "Can we, I need to leave."

"Come inside, breakfast is almost ready. The steamer isn't due for a few days; why the rush?" he asked, stepping round the pile of things to usher her indoors. She wasn't standing steady, so he grabbed for her shoulder to help her out.

She pulled away and stepped out on her own. After only a few steps toward the house, she fell.

Langston instinctively rushed to her and saw the skin of her legs, her stomach, her arms, showing due to holes in the clothing she wore, with singed edges, he saw the bruises and dried blood and burns. "I'm rushing you back to the doctor," he muttered, lifting her up as she winced.

"He made them hurt me, don't, I have to hide, I have to go," she muttered, passing out again as she felt the cool shade of a house surround her.

OXO

Staring down the closed door of a modest building, Langston wiped sweat from his brow, the mid-day suns blazing. He knocked again, to no avail, and sighed softly to himself. Playing it calm, he stepped across the way into the shade of a little noodle stand and asked for an ice water.

"He's here for her," the cook whispered to a waitress, almost out of range for him to hear. "Dropped her off, last week. Not a doubt."

Hesitantly, the petite, tanned waitress stepped gingerly over with his water, and stood after, clearing her throat.

Langston waited.

"Sir, are you looking for the girl at the clinic?"

He looked up. "I am to escort young miss back to the city," he replied, keeping his face stern and his voice free of emotion. Langston knew to play it safe, play the dumb brute people assumed him for.

The waitress, 'Tasha' as said her little, white nametag, turned over her shoulder to mouth something back to the cook, and shifted her weight as she looked back to the large man. "Sir, you'd best forget about her," the girl whispered, leaning down as if to wipe the table clean, "She was in cahoots with the devil."

"Really?"

"Can you believe it; living amongst us! She was carried off last night - no need to worry. I feel better, today, that's for certain. Sir, best forget about that one, be thankful you're clear of evil now."

OXO

Momma shook her head, sadly, not lifting her eyes to meet her sons'. She continued to sweep away sand and bits of ash from about the floor, working the stuff out towards the back door. Outside, she could be alone to speak with him, where the big, dark eyes of his brothers and sisters wouldn't see.

"I think something inside's ruptured," Momma whispered, sighing weakly. "Wrist's swollen all up like it's broken, with a fever, and her collarbone's shaped funny on one side; but inside, something's wrong. Only breathing with one lung, skin turning yellow. It's not looking good for her, son."

"Where's the nearest clinic out of town?" he asked, mostly to himself.

"Oh, son, let her go. We've got worries enough. Sheltering a thing like her, sure, I can understand why you do it, but she may be deceiving us, too. Let her go." The warm woman patted his arm and cast him a concerned glance.

"Yes, Momma."

OXO

By nightfall, Langston hadn't yet left the girl's room, and still no one was allowed in. The kids, ears to the door, heard rustling around after a bit, and their eldest brother emerged, finally, with knapsack over his shoulder and cloak on. "Bus leaving from Tinnison in the morning, so I'm out now. Sorry I have to leave so soon."

Momma gazed imploringly over his shoulder.

"She's dead. I need to get her out of here before anyone finds out. I'll take the body with me, bury it out in the middle of the desert."

"Keeping the spirit out of the house, good thinking, son."

All did their good-byes hastily, nervously. It was quite a relief to get the stranger out of the house, and Momma told the children to avert their eyes as Langston rode into the evening desert on a little, rented toma-drawn cart.

Langston paid the small-town surgeon only half his fee up front, and threatened to do 'worse than take a refund' if he worked any less than his best on the girl. Understanding well enough, the surgeon longed once more to work in a big city hospital where he wouldn't have to deal with this crap, but he nodded and hurried to mend the girl. And he knew not to ask 'why', because he was on the outskirts, and he knew better.

The girl, who Langston did not name, was nearly dead, and it went against the surgeon's better judgement to do a thing at all – but the money was good.

He drained fluids from a collapsed lung with a little plastic tube, and he opened her up to sew tight a ruptured set of kidneys, all while Langston watched, unflinching.

Ignoring requests to rest, to finish later, Langston demanded the deed be completed, and stared the surgeon down as he stiched up the edges on the large, grafted wound on her back, that had come loose in flaps of flesh. Langston had already stiched up some open gashes here and there, himself, as he had also set her shoulder. But he didn't know how to do the rest, and as he eyed the woman surgeon splinting a wrist, and hoped she could be trusted when she said the collarbone and ribs and remainder injuries would heal on their own.

Langston stayed for about 24 hours, at which point the nameless patient was stable and breathing and able to take liquids. Then, ignoring the surgeon's advise, he scooped up the tall, thin, fair, mysterious girl in his arms and left town, leaving behind no story, no name – only a bundle of double dollars.