For a moment Cohen did not move. Then he bent toward her mouth. Just as his lips touched hers Joanna drew an agonizing, gasping breath. Sam sat back, his fingers once more to her pulse, his eyes fixed on her face as her eyelids flickered. “Go on talking to her,” he said urgently under his breath, not taking his eyes from her face. Her color was beginning to return. His hands were once more on her ribs, gently feeling the slight flutter of returning life. One breath, then another; labored painful gulps of air. Gently Sam chafed her ice-cold hand, feeling the stickiness of her blood where it had dried on her fingers and over her palms. He stared down at the wounds. The cuts and grazes were real: lesions all around the fingernails and on the pads of the fingers, blisters and cuts on her palms, and a raw graze across one knuckle.

Cohen, making a supreme effort to sound calm, began to talk her slowly out of her trance. “That’s great, Joanna, good girl. You’re relaxed now and warm and happy. As soon as you feel strong enough I want you to open your eyes and look at me…That’s lovely…Good girl.”

Sam watched as she slowly opened her eyes. She seemed not to see the room nor the anxious men kneeling beside her on the floor. Her gaze was focused on the middle distance, her expression wiped smooth and blank. Cohen smiled with relief. “That’s it. Now, do you feel well enough to sit up?”

Gently he took her shoulders and raised her. “I am going to help you stand up so you can sit on the couch again.” He glanced at Sam, who nodded. Carefully the two men helped her to her feet and guided her across the room; as she lay down obediently Cohen covered her with the blanket. Her face was still drawn and pale as she laid her head on the pillow. She curled up defensively, but her breathing had become normal.

Cohen hooked his stool toward him with his toe, and, perching himself on it, he leaned forward and took one of her hands in his.