"You are better?" the kind voice asked.
The face was that of a girl probably somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Her features, devoid of makeup, had an unhealthy-looking pallor, as if she hadn't used a sunlamp for many weeks. Yet, at the same time, her firm slim body suggested a solidity and a strength. Her straight brown hair was combed backward, tight upon her scalp, and drawn together in a knot at the nape of her neck.
"I—I am better," he murmured. His words were still slow and thick. "I am going to live?"
"You will live."
He thought for a moment. "How long have I been here?"
"Nine days."
"You took care of me?" He noted the deep, dark circles beneath her sleep-robbed eyes.
She nodded.
"You're the one who carried me when I was shot?"