slight but insistent pull that mirrored the moon's effect on ocean tides. He tried to fight, but his muscles urged him to surrender, to drift upward. His arms and legs floated effortlessly in the cold waters of the grotto, his lungs took their fill, his eyes stared at the hazy circle of light that grew ever larger.
As he ascended, the layers of dreams separated like a series of skins, peeled away until he was pink and naked and raw. And now the moon was brighter, the water warmer, the sky pressing closer. His lungs ached, the soothing liquid rushing out only to be replaced by jagged stones. The tug of gravity intensified, pulling him faster toward a surface of confusion.
Jacob wanted to scream, but the grotto ate his words. The swelling brightness of the moon corresponded to bright feelings in his fingers, sparks of ice, arctic static.
The moon grew whiter, took over the world, and he recognized the energy that now flowed through his body.
Pain.
He awoke to razors and needles and shards of glass and the dull crush of tons. For a panicked moment, he thought he was being cremated alive, that he'd been brought back to consciousness for one final torment before the deliverance of eternal slumber.
Then the pain lost its thousand sharp edges and became a giant cresting wave of agony, one whose amplitude rose ever higher. The wave turned into a scream that crashed with the echo of his daughter's name.
Matilda Suzanne Aldridge Wells.
Matilda after Renee's mother, a woman who had hated her own name. Suzanne because that was Jacob's first choice, and they'd haggled about hyphenating Mattie's last name. Aldridge-Wells. But Renee pointed out that she herself had taken the Wells name and the hyphen wouldn't make sense unless she changed back to her maiden name. Or else Jake would have to take Renee's name. In either case, the paperwork was too daunting: social security forms, credit cards, insurance policies, Jake's business records, trappings of a modern American society where every person had a number and too many parents were making up confusing names for their children.
And Matilda became Mattie, though Jacob called her 'Matilda' in the soft twilight of her room, in the space between bedtime stories and night-night kisses, or on those rare occasions when Mattie's misbehavior ranked as a full-name offense. She was Matilda at both extremes of emotion, in deep anger and gentle, aching appreciation. And that was the name that crossed his lips now, as he plunged up through the surface and the moon exploded around him.
'What's that?' came a foreign voice, probably the voice of that strange moon pushed by a dry wind.
'Matilda.' His own ears couldn't recognize the sound that passed his lips.
'Don't speak, Mr. Wells.'
Jacob tried to speak anyway, but felt the tube that lay on his tongue and snaked down his throat. He blinked into the bright lunar face but its haziness remained. Gauze lay across his eyes. He shivered in the white light, afraid of everything, wishing the grotto would suck him back down into its placid waters.
A gentle hand touched his arm and he yelped at the contact. A machine hissed in a rhythm that both mimicked and mocked life. It was breathing for him, sending oxygen into the tube, through his lungs and heart and bloodstream. Jacob tried to lift his head, but it felt impossibly heavy, a chunk of charred granite.
'Relax, Mr. Wells.'
The voice was soothing, distant. Jacob licked his lips around the tube. Through the gauze, he could make out the brown face, the white coat, the spotlight he'd mistaken for the moon.
'Thirsty,' Jacob said, having trouble with the sibilant due to the dryness of his mouth.
'You've got an IV,' the distant voice said. The voice was richly accented, West African or something equally exotic. 'It may be a day or two before you can drink again.'
Jacob blinked against the gauze, his eyes stinging. After a moment of looking at the vague shapes of machinery and the tubes dangling around him, he closed his eyes. 'Where am I?'
'Littlejohn Memorial.'
Hospital.
Kingsboro, North Carolina.
Where he'd once lived and probably still did.
So this wasn't heaven, or even an antechamber to the land of the dead. Or perhaps it was. Maybe this was his punishment, a purgatory of pain and equipment, a life sentence for his failures.
'How long…?' Jacob wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. How long he'd been dead? How long before he wasn't dead anymore?
'You've been here thirty-six hours. You're a very lucky man. Upper airway edema, second-degree burns over fifty percent of your body, a dislocated hip.' A hand touched Jacob's arm again. 'I'm Dr. Masutu.'
Jacob shivered, his flesh cold but his skin like that of a baked potato, rough and hot and dry. He flexed his fingers and they felt like water balloons. The doctor must have noticed the movement.
'You're a little swollen at the moment. It's typical for burn victims to gain twenty or thirty pounds due to fluid buildup. Your metabolism is in hyperactive mode right now, trying to heal your injuries.'
A memory sparked in Jacob's head, but it was swept away by a yellow wave of pain. The wave rushed up the beaches of his soul, the foam tickled him, and then the pain receded. The pain reminded him of something, as if it were part of him and he should not be spared. His tongue was thick against the tube and he couldn't feel his teeth.
'I've adjusted your morphine drip,' Dr. Masutu said. 'Now that you're awake, you'll probably feel a little discomfort. Unfortunately, we have to go easy on the suppressants because your respiratory system is overtaxed.'
Doctors always used the word 'discomfort' in place of 'pain.'
'And extra antibiotics,' the doctor continued. 'The burns will heal, but it's a dangerous time for your body. Because your system is fighting so hard to grow new skin and replace your fluids, you're vulnerable to infections. But we're going to be just fine.'
Jacob felt himself sliding back into the languor of the grotto. Something the doctor had said, one word among that stream of syllables, caused him to open his eyes just before he succumbed to darkness.
Burns.
Burns meant heat.
Heat meant fire.
Fire meant that the other dream was not a dream, and the memory of flames eating the walls returned. The past built itself on blackened timbers, stacked like logs, nailed itself together into a wobbly house.
Fire. House.
And a name.
Then words meant nothing, because he was in the grotto again, its water soft against his skin. Cool darkness reclaimed him, and he welcomed it.
A familiar voice accompanied him on his next journey to the surface.
'Honey? Can you hear me?'
Jacob could hear Renee, but couldn't respond. His tongue was like a sock, his mouth a leather shoe. He forced his eyes open and the spotlight stung them. The gauze had been removed. The corners of the room swam on the edges of his vision.
'Doctor, he opened his eyes.'
He sensed movement, and shadows fell across his face. His hands and feet were numb. His chest was cold, and for a moment he thought he was naked. Jacob rolled his eyes down far enough to see that a loose sheet covered his body. Or maybe it was a shroud.
'Welcome back, Mr. Wells,' came a voice that he dimly recognized. 'It's Dr. Masutu.'
Jacob's lips parted, and he pushed his tongue out enough to feel the chapped skin around his mouth. His cheeks were coated with a cold gel. He tried to raise his arm and wipe it away, but the doctor caught his hand.
'Easy does it. You still have a drip in that arm.'
Jacob looked into the dark, featureless face of the man above him. Then he saw the person to the right of the doctor. The shape of the hair was familiar, the way it curled out at shoulder length. He tried to focus on her but his
