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When I pull back, I realize he can’t move.

“Oh.” I climb off of him. “Where’s your Oil?”

“Get my canteen.” He gestures with his eyes to the table behind us and I climb over the sofa, stretching to nab it. When I unscrew the lid, the air is perfumed with the sweet scent of the liquid that waits inside.

Lid in hand, I slowly pour it out. “How much?”

“Full cap,” he instructs, and I stop just before it spills over. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

Carefully, I pour the drug into his mouth and he swallows it back eagerly. It takes a few seconds, but then he gets just enough motion back in his hands that his fingers can move.

“Now my pants,” he tells me. “My kit is in the pocket.”

I hurry over to his discarded trousers and drag them back to him. His movements are slow and stiff, but he manages to pull the pants back on, groaning as he does.

He leaves the button and the belt undone.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

The contents inside the kit rattle as he pops the lid open. “We just fucked, Dorothy. Now you’re worried about propriety?”

“Well … surely this is different.”

He looks up at me. “Is it?”

I retrieve my own clothes, redressing as he prepares the purer version of the drug.

I watch as he ties off his arm, taps for a vein.

There is a method to his movements, a bit of urgency too.

He finds what he needs and fills the glass barrel of the needle.

“How often do you have to use?”

The needle sinks into his flesh. “Twice a day. Usually. Sometimes more if I’m injured.”

He presses down on the plunger and the dark drug disappears into his vein.

Once it’s gone, he pulls the needle out, sets it back in the tin, then undoes the tie.

His head lolls back.

His breathing slows.

“I just … need … a minute,” he says, the words stretching out like putty.

“Okay,” I tell him. “I’ll keep watch.”

His eyes slip closed and he’s out.

SIXTEENRook

The castle in Eisvale is built of white limestone and before the dark cloud covered Oz, it glittered like diamonds in the sunlight. It was once the wintertime retreat for the royal family and they would dress it in boughs of evergreen and frosted lanterns that flickered like stars. Artisans from Eisvale would bring quilted garland and string it on the limestone balusters running the length of the castle’s front balcony.

If I think about it, I can almost smell the pine, the crackling fire, the spice of hot tea, and the warmth of gingerbread.