I’d come down with a pneumonia, or so I was told, and I was distinctly uncomfortable lying in my Master’s bed. I had little choice though, my Master made all my decisions and I lived with them. The doctor visited me often, every two or three days for very nearly two weeks and I think he wanted to remove me to a hospital, but reluctantly agreed that I would recover well enough in my Master’s bedroom if we were careful and attentive.

I felt weak and I had fevers coming and going, violent coughing spells at night, and I was unhappy and lonely, missing my brothers terribly. Master was good company though, and he spoiled me, worrying over the weight I was losing and spoon feeding me soup and warm milk, or hot chocolate and toast occasionally.

We had little to do except sleep and talk. Master would read to me, which I enjoyed because I’d never been much of a girl for books and it was strange to find that I enjoyed the stories Master would read each afternoon. I especially found Hemingway to be stimulating for some reason, listening with rapt attention while I imagined the scenes and characters in ‘For Whom the Bell Tolls’ and while I didn’t really understand the story, I understood well enough the feelings behind it and I would cry sometimes, so that Master would put his book down and lie down beside me, holding me until I stopped.

The talks we had were simple ones really, nothing more than everyday conversations that anyone might have. He would tell me about my brothers, or about his work being a lawyer for the Indians. I would tell him how much I missed being outside and I tried to persuade him to take me for walks, but of course he wouldn’t. Master barely let me out of bed for the first week, and I really was pretty sick then anyway.

It seemed a long time before the doctor finally pronounced me healthy again, although he seemed somewhat doubtful. Not about my body, which he said was remarkable, but more over my mind, I suppose. He also found that remarkable, but not in an admirable way, not like he appreciated my body. He didn’t understand why I would want to live the way I did, nor did he appreciate my piercings, especially the ring in my pubis, although he could find no flaw with it. All my piercings had healed perfectly, the way my body was recovering quickly and almost effortlessly from the infection in my lungs and the deep cuts along my sides.

I was even regaining weight as my appetite had returned with a vengeance. I felt fat and lazy by the time the doctor paid his final visit and I was anxious to get back to my own room and exercise with my brothers. The days were growing warmer and I missed the sun and my morning baths. But my Master didn’t let me go right away, he kept me in his room even after the doctor had agreed I was fine.

“No. Lie back down, Dare,” my Master told me after he’d shown the doctor out.

I was on my feet; shrugging out of the nightgown I’d been forced to wear for the doctor’s visits.