Everyone nearby knew immediately that something was wrong. People have occasionally passed out at the revels, but I was not known for my impressionable spirit or any kind of religious fervor. I'm told that my eyes rolled up in my head and I simply dropped straight down in a heap with very little fuss, which seems pretty much like me.

Immediately a crowd gathered around and just as quickly they were shoved away by Charles and Jacob, so that Dr. Kirchner had enough room to drop to his knees and revive me. Or perhaps resurrect is the better word, since I had no pulse and wasn't breathing at the time.

Needless to say, I don't remember any of this. A sort of false memory has settled in my mind, though, built up from stories I heard later on. It seemed like nobody's life was complete that winter until they'd come to see me and tell me their version of events. The tales varied wildly, as these things tend to do: in one memorable account of the Temporary Death of Christopher Dusk, my spirit was seen to leave my body as a bright orange glow. I try to ignore that one.

What I recall after the lighting of the bonfire is mainly a sharp, sudden pain, followed by constricting tightness in my chest and then nothing – a void, a gap, until it was replaced with the sensation of bone-deep warmth and the sound of quiet breathing in a different rhythm from my own. And a voice – Dr. Kirchner's deep bass, reassuringly calm.

"Really, Lucas, he's resting quietly. I don't mind you staying here, but you should at least wash your face. You're covered in ash."

"I don't care. He might wake up."

"Sooner or later he will, but it'll be all right if you aren't here. I'll let him know that you were waiting for him."

I tried to move, to let them know I was awake, but when I shifted my weight the muscles in my chest twinged alarmingly. I did get my eyes open, and made a surprised noise when a face loomed close to mine.

"Hello, Christopher," said Dr. Kirchner, smiling reassuringly. "How are you feeling?"

"I...why are you – in my bedroom?" I asked, and he laughed uneasily.

"We're not in your bedroom," he said. "You've had an episode. Are you breathing comfortably?"

"Yes," I answered. "Should I be?"

"It's good that you are. The roads aren't great and I'd hate to have to helicopter you to the hospital."

"I don't need a hospital," I replied. And then, stupidly, "I want to go home."

"I know, but I have to make sure you're all right first."

He helped me to sit up and I saw that we were in the office of the church – I was lying on the pastor's couch, covered in a couple of tattery blankets. Lucas was standing in a corner, near the window, still in the Fire Man's leggings. He was wearing a shirt three sizes too big for him, obviously borrowed from somewhere, and there was grease and ash-dust on his arms and face – a very pale face, under the grime.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I answered.

"Well, now that's out of the way, back here please," Kirchner said, tipping my chin back so that I was looking at him. He rattled through a series of questions that were both soothingly easy and incredibly invasive, which I answered more or less honestly. I may have lied a little about how well I felt, but I wanted to convince him that I should be allowed to go home. It seemed very urgent at the time.

For a while I forgot Lucas was even in the room, until he moved to leave and gave me a small, shy wave from the doorway. I found out later that he'd been the major conduit of information between the doctor and the rest of the bonfire party, in the first few minutes after they moved my unconscious body to the church and, well, panicked a whole lot. No doubt he was leaving to tell them I was awake.

"I'm going back to my office to get you a heart monitor," Kirchner said finally. "I want you to stay still and rest until I come back. I'm going to have Charles keep an eye on you, all right?"

I nodded and might have drifted off for a minute or two, since the next thing I recall is Charles, bending over and poking me in the forehead.

"Christopher?" he boomed, and the echo bounced around between my ears for a while.

"What?" I groaned.

"Just making sure you're still alive," he answered, and mercifully leaned back. Beyond him, it seemed like half the town was assembled – though, looking back, it was probably only a few of the church elders and pillars of the community, the kind who always get front-row seats in Low Ferry's dramatic moments.

"Do you need anything?" Charles asked. I thought about asking for water, but one of the elders piped up before I could.

"What you need are peppers," he said, voice firm and resolute. "Good for the circulation, get you back on your feet in no time."

"What if circulation's not his problem?" Jacob asked. His father, behind him, gave an emphatic nod. "He needs to see a city doctor."

"A little modern medicine couldn't hurt," Paula agreed, crossing her arms. "Have you thought about getting a pacemaker, Christopher?" she asked, a little more loudly than she needed to.

"A pacemaker? Why?" another man asked.

"Do you like peppers?" the first inquired.

"Not really," I said slowly.

"Hmpf! Proves my point!"

"Well, we don't know what the problem is," Charles said. "Best not to meddle too much until – "