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come back with it.”
    “All right,” he said dully, clutching the clothes to the chest. “That’s what I’ll do. Rest.”
    His flat voice worried me, but I waited until he closed the bathroom door until I launched into action. Maybe it would help him if he had his clothes. Maybe that familiarity would help jar some sort of memory back into his head. I piled the clean, wet clothes into a basket and set out.
    The cooler than usual morning made me inhale, made me almost forget all my problems. It was going to be a beautiful day. I’d throw all the windows in the cottage open to let in the fresh air.
    I hung the clothes to dry on the line behind the cottage in double speed, then jogged to the barn. It felt good for my lungs to run. Plus, it helped to get around a little faster. I didn’t want to leave the man alone for too long in the cottage. He needed me.
    “Sorry,” I said to the chickens, tossing a scoop of feed into their coop. “I have someone else I need to watch today. You’ll get your time outside soon. I promise.”
    I checked on the garden again, frowning at the encroaching weeds that had enjoyed the rain just as much as the other plants. It wouldn’t be an invasion overnight, but I’d have to deal with them soon. There were also some ripe tomatoes and peppers, and I spotted an almost ready cucumber. Perhaps I’d come back later this afternoon to pick the vegetables. I could make something light for the man to eat. Maybe he’d be able to manage a salad or a soup. He had to eat something to help rebuild his strength.
    I ran back to the cottage, peering around it to make sure all of the clothes were still pinned firmly to the line and fluttering in the breeze. They’d be dry in no time, and he could have his own clothes back.
    When I reentered the cottage, I frowned in concern. The man wasn’t on the couch, as I’d expected him to be. I stepped quickly down the hall and to the bathroom, hesitating for half a second before knocking on the door.
    “Are you okay in there?” I asked. “Did the clothes fit all right?”
    “I don’t think I’m okay,” he said, his voice even weaker. “I don’t feel well.”
    Gash on the head? Injured ribs? Can’t remember anything that happened or even his own name? Of course he didn’t feel well.
    “Do you need help getting back to the couch?” I asked. “I can come in and help you. Are you decent?”
    “I got the shorts on,” he said tiredly. “But the shirt hurt too bad.”
    I opened the door cautiously to see him sitting on the edge of the tub. The shorts fit him just a shade tightly, but it was all we could do until his other clothes dried. I took in his hanging head, his fine muscles, the bruising on his ribs, then looked quickly away—to the right, hiding the scarring—as he looked up at me.
    “You’re pretty shy, aren’t you?” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”
    “I’m just not very used to people, I’m afraid,” I said apologetically. “I’ve been out here for about five years now, and you’re the first person I’ve talked to since then.”
    “Is it because of your scars?” he asked gently.
    My hand flew up to the right side of my face in dismay before I could stop it, trying to conceal the stretched and puckered pink skin that was too widespread for me to cover completely.
    “It’s okay,” he said. “You don’t have to hide it. I don’t mind.”
    I stared at him for a long time, not lowering my hand a fraction of an inch. The scar was monstrous. He was obviously lying to me, pitying me because I couldn’t show my face in public if I ever even wanted to. Being pitied was an ugly, ugly feeling—probably as ugly as my scar.
    “You really don’t mind it?” I asked dubiously. “The scar?”
    He shook his head. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me.”
    “It bothers me,” I whispered, the words stunning me as they left my mouth. Why was I confiding in this stranger?