Snake ran toward the sound of scuffling, the knife on her belt half-drawn. She rounded a boulder and slid to a stop.

Melissa struggled violently in the grasp of a tall, cadaverous figure in desert robes. He had one hand over her mouth and the other around her, pinning her arms. She fought and kicked, but the man did not react in either pain or anger.

“Tell her to stop,” he said. “I won’t hurt her.” His words were thick and slurred, as if he were intoxicated. His robes were torn and soiled and his hair stood out wildly. The irises of his eyes seemed paler than the bloodshot whites, giving him a blank, inhuman look. Snake knew immediately that this was the crazy, even before she saw the ring that had cut her forehead when he attacked her on the streets of Mountainside.

“Let her go.”

“I’ll trade you,” he said. “Even trade.”

“We don’t have much, but it’s yours. What do you want?”

“The dreamsnake,” he said. “No more than that.” Melissa struggled again and the man moved, gripping her more tightly and more cruelly.

“All right,” Snake said. “I haven’t any choice, have I? He’s in my case.”

He followed her back to camp. The old mystery was solved, a new one created.

Snake pointed to the case. “The top compartment,” she said.

The crazy sidled toward it, pulling Melissa awkwardly along. He reached toward the clasp, then jerked back his hand. He was trembling.

“You do it,” he said to Melissa. “For you it’s safe.”

Without looking at Snake, Melissa reached for the clasp. She was very pale.

“Stop it,” Snake said. “There’s nothing in there.”

Melissa let her hand fall to her side, looking; at Snake with mixed relief and fear.

“Let her go,” Snake said again. “If the dreamsnake is what you want, I can’t help you. He was killed before you even found my camp.”

Narrowing his eyes, he stared at her, then turned and reached for the serpent case. He flicked the catch open and kicked the whole thing over.

The grotesque sand viper lurched out in a tangle, writhing and hissing. It raised its head for an instant as if to strike in retaliation for its captivity, but both the crazy and Melissa stood frozen. The viper slithered around and slid toward the rocks. Snake sprang forward and pulled Melissa away from the crazy, but he did not even notice.

“Trick me!” Suddenly he laughed hysterically and raised his hands to the sky. “That would give me what I need!” Laughing and crying, with tears streaming down his face, he sank to the ground.

Snake moved quickly toward the rocks, but the sand viper had disappeared. Scowling, gripping the handle of her knife, she stood over the crazy. The vipers were rare enough on the desert: they were nonexistent in the foothills. Now she could not make the vaccine for Arevin’s people, and she had nothing at all to take back to her teachers.

“Get up,” she said. Her voice was harsh. She glanced at Melissa. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Melissa said. “But he let that viper go.”

The crazy remained in his crumpled heap, crying quietly.

“What’s wrong with him?” Melissa stood at Snake’s elbow, peering down at the sobbing man.

“I don’t know.” Snake toed him in the side. “You. Stop it. Get up.”

The man moved weakly at their feet. His wrists protruded from ragged sleeves; his arms and hands were like bare branches.

“I should have been able to get away from him,” Melissa said in disgust.

“He’s stronger than he looks,” Snake said. “For gods’ sakes, man, stop all that howling. We’re not going to do anything to you.”

“I’m already dead,” he whispered. “You were my last chance so I’m dead.”

“Your last chance for what?”

“For happiness.”

“That’s a lousy kind of happiness, that makes you wreck things and jump out on people,” Melissa said.

He glared up at them, tears streaking his skeletal face. Deep lines creased his skin. “Why did you come back? I couldn’t follow you anymore. I wanted to go home to die, if they’d let me. But you came back. Right back to me.” He buried his face in the tattered sleeves of his desert robe. He had lost his headcloth. His hair was brown and dry. He sobbed no longer, but his shoulders trembled.

Snake knelt down and urged him to his feet. She had to support most of his weight herself. Melissa stood warily by for a moment, then shrugged and came to help. As they started forward, Snake felt a hard, square-edged shape beneath the crazy’s clothes. Dragging him around, she pulled open his robe, fumbling through layers of grimy material.

“What are you doing? Stop it!” He struggled with her, flailing about with his bony arms, trying to pull his clothing back across his scrawny body.

Snake found the inside pocket. As soon as she touched the hidden shape she knew it was her journal. She snatched it and let the crazy go. He backed up a step or two and stood shivering, frantically rearranging the folds of his garments. Snake ignored him, her hands clenched tight around the book.

“What is it?” Melissa asked.

“The journal of my proving year. He stole it from my camp.”

“I meant to throw it away,” the crazy said. “I forgot I had it.”

Snake glared at him.

“I thought it would help me, but it didn’t. It was no help at all.”

Snake sighed.

Back in their camp, Snake and Melissa lowered the crazy to the ground and pillowed his head on a saddle, where he lay staring blankly at the sky. Every time he blinked, a fresh tear rolled down his face and washed the dirt and dust away in streaks. Snake gave him some water and sat on her heels watching him, wondering what, if anything, his strange remarks meant. He was a crazy, after all, but not a spontaneous one. He was driven by desperation.

“He isn’t going to do anything, is he?” Melissa asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“He made me drop the wood,” Melissa said. Clearly disgusted, she strode toward the rocks.

“Melissa—”

She glanced back.

“I hope that sand viper just kept on going, but he might still be over there someplace. We better do without a fire tonight.”

Melissa hesitated so long that Snake wondered if she might say she preferred the company of the sand viper to that of the crazy, but in the end she shrugged and went over to the horses.

Snake held the water flask to the crazy’s lips again. He swallowed once, then let the water drip from the corners of his mouth through several days’ growth of beard. It pooled on the hard ground beneath him and dribbled away in tiny rivulets.

“What’s your name?” Snake waited, but he did not answer. She had begun to wonder if he had gone catatonic, when he shrugged, deeply and elaborately.

“You must have a name.”

“I suppose,” he said; he licked his lips, his hands twitched, he blinked and two more tears cut through the dust on his face, “I suppose I must have had one once.”

“What did you mean, all that about happiness? Why did you want my dreamsnake? Are you dying?”

“I told you that I was.”

“Of what?”

“Need.”

Snake frowned. “Need for what?”

“For a dreamsnake.”

Snake sighed. Her knees hurt. She shifted her position and sat cross-legged near the crazy’s shoulder. “I can’t help you if you don’t help me know what’s wrong.”

He jerked himself upright, scrabbling at the robe he had arranged so carefully, pulling at the worn material until it ripped. He flung it open and bared his throat, lifting his chin. “That’s all you need to know!”

Snake looked closer. Among the rough dark hairs of the crazy’s growing beard she could see numerous tiny scars, all in pairs, clustered over the carotid arteries. She rocked back, startled. A dreamsnake’s fangs had left those marks, she had no doubt of that, but she could not even imagine, much less recall, a disease so severe and agonizing that it would require so much venom to ease the pain, yet in the end leave its victim alive. Those scars had been made over a considerable time, for some were old and white, some so fresh and pink and shiny that they must still have been scabbed over when he first rifled her camp.