Wyatt had been on this road before. Last winter. And with no destination in mind. This time, he knew where he was going. He even knew why. What he didn’t understand was the pull that drew him down the road. The closer he came to the great Pine Mountain, the more certain he became that he was on the right track. He drove relentlessly, stopping only when necessary, compelled to reach Larner’s Mill before nightfall. He couldn’t get past the increasing panic he felt, or the fact that he was listening for a voice that had suddenly gone silent.

      The sun was halfway between zenith and horizon when he pulled into Larner’s Mill, but the relief he imagined he would feel was not there. In fact, the urgency of his quest seemed to have taken on darker overtones. An unsettled feeling had taken root in his belly, and try as he might, there was no rational explanation for the emotion, other than the uncertainty of his quest.

      When he pulled into the parking lot of the small community hospital and got out, he found himself wanting to run. But to where? Instead, he took a deep breath and entered through the emergency room doors.

      A nurse glanced up from a desk near the door. “May I help you, sir?”

      “I want to talk to one of your doctors,” Wyatt said.

      She slipped a fresh page on a clipboard and held a pen poised above the lines.

      “Your name?” she asked.

      “Wyatt Hatfield,” he said.

      “And what are your symptoms?”

      “I’m not sick. But I was here before. Last winter, in fact. I had a car wreck during a blizzard. I was…”

      “I remember you,” she cried, and jumped to her feet. “Dr. Steading was your doctor. You were the talk of the hospital for some time.”

      “Why was that?” Wyatt asked.

      “You know,” she said. “About how lucky you were to have had that donor show up when she did. With such a rare blood type, and the blizzard and all, there was no way we could access the blood banks in the bigger cities as we normally might have done.”

      The expression on Wyatt’s face stilled as he absorbed the nurse’s unwitting revelation.

      “Yes, I suppose you’re right. I am one lucky man.” He gave her a smile he didn’t feel. “So, could I talk to Dr. Steading? There are some things about the accident that I don’t remember. I thought maybe he could give me some help.”

      “I’ll see,” she said, and shortly thereafter, Wyatt found himself on the way through the corridors to an office in the other wing. When he saw the name on the door, his pulse accelerated. He knocked and then entered.

      “Dr. Steading?”

      Amos Steading arched one bushy eyebrow, and then stood and reached over his desk, his hand outstretched.

      “You, sir, look a damn sight healthier than the last time I saw you,” he said, his gravelly voice booming within the small confines of the office.

      Wyatt caught the handshake and grinned. “I suppose I feel better, too,” he said.

      Steading frowned. “Suppose?”

      Wyatt took the chair offered him, and tried not to show his uneasiness, but it seemed it was impossible to hide anything, including an emotion, from the grizzled veteran.

      Steading persisted. “So, did you come all this way just to shake my hand, or are you going to spit it out?”

      Wyatt took a deep breath, and then started talking.

      “I know I was in serious condition when I was brought in here,” he said.

      “No,” Steading interrupted. “You were dying, boy.”

      Wyatt paled, but persisted. “The reason I came is…I need to know if, in your opinion, I could have suffered any residual brain damage.”

      Steading frowned. That was the last thing he expected to hear this man say. His eyes were clear and bright, his manner straightforward, and he’d walked into his office like a man with a purpose. None of this hinted at any sort of mental disability.

      “Why?” Steading asked. “Are you suffering memory loss, or…”

      Wyatt shook his head. “No, nothing like that.”

      “So…?”

      “So, I want to know what exactly happened to my head,” Wyatt growled.

      “You had one hell of a concussion. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d gone into a coma.”

      Wyatt started to relax. Maybe this would explain what he thought he’d heard. Maybe his head was still lost in some sort of fugue.

      “But you didn’t,” Steading added. “After surgery, you pretty much sailed through recovery. There’s a lot to be said for a young, healthy body.”

      “Damn,” Wyatt muttered beneath his breath. One theory shot to hell.

      This time, both of Steading’s eyebrows arched. “You’re disappointed?”

      Wyatt shrugged. “It would have explained a lot.”

      “Like what?” Steading persisted.

      The last thing he intended to admit, especially to a doctor, was that he was hearing voices. They’d lock him up in a New York minute. He changed the subject.

      “I understand that I was given transfusions.”

      “Transfusion,” Steading corrected. “And damned lucky to have that one. Whole blood made