Curtis drifts in and out for a while after the doctor's done. Reality blends with memory: at one point, the bed becomes a warm pile of snow, and white flakes spin around his vision as he blinks up at the light. At another, Wilford's the one spooning broth into his mouth. It tastes awful, like liquefied steak, but he's too weak to spit it out -- let alone fling the bowl across the room and go for Wilford's throat.

He isn't shivering, though. Everything aches with a pins-and-needles thaw, but he's suffered worse hurts, and the stinging passes quickly enough -- except in his right hand, which burns like it's inches away from a flame and still can't bend without effort. By the time the delirium passes, he's aware enough to be concerned about that, albeit in a detached way.

(In the next cot over, Edgar's a blanket-wrapped lump with a shock of gingerish hair at one end and some pale turquoise gel-packs at the other, one maybe-shoulder shifting in the slow rhythm of breathing sleep.)