Maybe it was the old shaman's visit, or maybe it was my own indomitable strength of will (yeah, right). But after that my rate of improvement increased drastically. Within two days of Akaku'akanene's nocturnal admissions, I was on my feet and taking mild exercise, and two days after that I was rolling toward the main door of the hospital—the Kuakini Central, I'd learned its name was—in a powered wheelchair. (Why do hospitals, even in this day and age, insist that patients can't leave the premises under their own power? In case other prospective "clients" think they're actually cured ...?) My escort—the practical nurse assigned to my rehabilitation, a big, jovial ork called Mary Ann—pressed the Door Open button for me and stood clear as I rolled out into the sunshine. She bent down and planted a wet, tusked kiss on the top of my head. (We'd gotten along just fine, me and Mary Ann—when she wasn't threatening me into one more rep on some exercise-torture machine, that was.)