"Mustard poultices every night and brisk walks in the cold are good for the constitution."

"Brisk walks in the cold? What do you think tonight was?" Paula inquired.

"Brisk walks in the cold where nobody jumps out at you from behind a tree, maybe," I suggested weakly, not that any kind of walking appealed at the moment.

"Sorry about that," Charles said contritely. "That isn't what did it, is it?"

"I don't know," I said.

"Maybe it's pneumonia," Jacob's father ventured. "I think vitamins."

"Peppers have vitamins!"

"Can't I go home?" I asked Charles.

"It's past midnight, and Kirchner wants to hook you up to a bunch of machines," Charles said. The argument – peppers versus bed rest versus pacemaker – was still going on around us and looked to be getting into really full swing.

"What is going on in here?" a new voice demanded, and everyone fell silent. I turned my head just enough to see Dr. Kirchner standing in the doorway, a bundle of wires in one hand. "Charles!"

"What?" Charles demanded.

"He's not a circus sideshow! Out, all of you."

"He wanted to see us," Paula protested, even as Charles began sheepishly herding them out of the room.

"I don't care if he wanted the moon!" Kirchner retorted as Charles boomed, "Everyone out!"

They filed out, still bickering, and Kirchner closed the door behind them. The silence was a deep relief. I relaxed and breathed slowly, my muscles objecting every time I inhaled. The CPR, probably, raising bruises on the skin that I could feel but not see. I didn't want to sleep lying on my back, but the chances of actual movement were pretty slim. Especially with Kirchner attaching all kinds of odd, cold patches and wires to my body.

"So," I said, while he fitted something onto my index finger. "How bad was it this time?"

He glanced up at my face for a hurried moment, then went back to fiddling with the machine. "You should rest, Christopher."

"I died, didn't I?"

"Your heart stopped briefly. That's why they call it heart failure."

"For how long?"

"Briefly," Kirchner said firmly.

"So you're saying I did die."

"Christopher..." Kirchner looked frustrated, not that I blame him. At the time, however, I was sick and scared and didn't have much room in all of that to think of someone else's feelings. "Yes, medically, you were dead for a little under a minute. That's not very long. Most people can hold their breath for a minute. Now, are you going to stay calm about all this or do I need to give you a sedative?"

"I'm fine," I said. "I'm not dead anymore."

"Good. Try and sleep."

I was out cold by the time Kirchner finished his work, and I didn't wake again until well into the following morning. Even then, I suspect the only reason I woke up was because Kirchner had to readjust some of his machines.

"Not that I'm going to be the one to kick you out of a church," he said to me, when he saw I was awake, "but you should consider a brisk walk in the cold as far as my car."

"Will there be peppers?" I asked. He smiled and began removing the machines.

"No."

"Away we go. Are you sure you're medically qualified?" I managed, sitting up. "I'm not positive the best solution for a man arisen from the dead is to put him on a church sofa for a night. Even with machines."

"Well, your vocal cords aren't damaged," he answered, helping me to stand. "And there's clearly no neurological dysfunction. You're doing very well, Christopher, considering the situation. I think you'd be happier at home, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," I admitted. I leaned heavily on his shoulder as we walked to his car.

I don't recall much of the drive down the street to my shop or getting up the porch steps, not to mention the staircase from the back of the shop to my kitchen. I don't remember Kirchner leaving, either. What I remember next, after this briefly lucid exchange, was waking in my bed to find someone sitting in a chair next to it.

"Are you here to check the machines again?" I asked, confused.

"He unhooked you," Lucas answered. Yes, of course he had.

"So I could have died in my room and nobody would have known," I grumbled.

"No," Lucas replied. "Dr. Kirchner stayed here for a few hours, then he called Charles and me and I told Charles I'd come watch you, since I know where you keep your sandwich stuff."

"Vital," I said. He was wearing ordinary clothes again, and he tilted his head to indicate an empty plate on the windowsill next to the chair. "How the hell long have you been here?" I asked.

"Not too long."

"You didn't have to. I wasn't planning on dying again."