They used to be reality, to him. Demons, miracles and wine that was the holy blood of the lamb. And though he never fully subscribed to all of that, the memories stay with him like childhood stories that can't be true but leave you turning a light on for safety, just in case.

"Like crap," he answers, obligingly. "My head's killing me." Beyond the headache and the dizzying tiredness, there's a blood bruise from the IV on one arm, spread out in varying shades of purple to about the size of a tennis ball. His legs are stiff, but it's when he tries to bend one that his face really falls.

Popliteal artery. Back of the knee. There's a helpless irony when he looks up at her again. "Think I'm going to be walking with a limp for a while."