"You're looking awful fit yourself," I say, which is maybe a strange thing, but she's not the waif on the back of a hay-bellied island pony any more. Even as strange as this place is, it has been good enough that neither of us seems to be eating as poorly as we were--beans for Puck, tinned meats for me.

But speaking of her like this is a strange thing. I think I must have told her, at some time or another, how remarkable she is. But perhaps I haven't. Perhaps I've only thought it.

Now, I say, "Where are we going?"