I sat up, saw the Savalette Guardian lying a meter or two away, and crawled over to grab it. I holstered the gun, then looked at my watch. I’d been unconscious for more than an hour. And I felt like drek. Every muscle ached and my head was pounding. I felt as bad as I had the night after my own grandmother died in hospital—after my all-day, all-night drinking binge. I even had the foul taste in my mouth. I wiped my mouth—and my hand rubbed away crumbs of dried blood. My lips weren’t cut—it must have been the blood from the spirit. Feeling queasy, I spat until my lips were clean again.