with which he had no familiarity.

 

In his mind’s eye a thirty-year-younger Claire Jericho looked down at him as he

lay on the hospital bed, writhing in so much pain that they’d had to shackle him

to the bed like a prisoner.

 

And it had become clear fairly soon thereafter that he was a prisoner.

 

She had taken off her glasses, wiped a spot clear, put them back on, placed a

small hand on his bucking shoulder, and told him in the calmest tone possible

that what he was doing was for the greater good. That philosophy had become like

a second heartbeat or an additional way to breathe.

 

When he had finally risen from the hospital bed and gone back to his room, he

found a small box there. Inside was the ring. He opened his eyes and held up his

right hand. He gripped the ring there with his other hand and wrenched it over

the lumpy knuckle, leaving a trail of ripped flesh and blood in its wake.

 

He looked at the engraving on the inside of the band.

 

For the greater good. CJ.

 

CJ. Claire Jericho.

 

She had given him the ring when he’d recovered from the surgeries.