His body was filthy, covered with dirt, scratches and streaks of dried sweat. His lopsided face, wrapped with blood-stained strips of leather, swelled...hideously. The Light-Eye scarcely noticed his condition. Overcome by rage, he acted on instinct, and before anyone knew what was happening, his hand wrapped around the shaman’s throat. People shouted, pulling at his arm, his body, begging him, demanding him to stop, but he neither heard nor saw them. The Spiritwalker rasped, pleading for his life. ?Doc. Doc Sagan.? He held out his hand. She took it and smiled up at him. ?I am Donna. Donna Romano.? Doc woke up in a strange room. Sunlight streamed through a window. He heard the sounds of a city, the cars, the chickens. ?Chickens?? he mumbled to himself. He opened one eye. It hurt to do that. The room was small, but very neat, very clean. He heard running water. He closed his eye and felt his body. His body hurt. His head throbbed. His right. More

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