Shayla pushed the man up to the bed. Walking around the wheelchair, she joined me in staring at him. Still, he was unconscious, breathing only very lightly.

Shayla’s face was traced with concern as she moved to him again. She levitated him out of his chair and laid him down flat on the bed. She stood on one side of the bed while I stood on the other. Placing two thumbs gently against his mussed brows, she lifted his eyelids and gazed at his vacant eyes. I gathered the blanket at the end of the bed and pulled it up to his waist. Shayla undid the buttons of his robe and pushed it aside to reveal his bare stomach.

I was surprised by what I saw. His chest was broader than I had expected beneath that baggy robe he had been engulfed in. Shadows of what appeared to have once been toned muscles were visible on his torso, now worn and faded from lack of use. The back of his neck was also broad, like that of a fighter. Who is—or was—this man?

Shayla examined his arms, particularly his wrists. He had faint scars the size of pinpricks near his veins.

“Yeah,” Shayla muttered darkly. “Those hunters have been injecting him with something.”

She proceeded to measure his temperature, as well as prod and poke other parts of his upper body, looking beneath his armpits, checking his pulse again, performing a number of other external examinations. Finally she concluded, “I’m pretty sure that your mother was right. He seems to be half-blood.”

“Where would the hunters have found him?” I wondered. “And why did they keep him down in that bunker?” And, for that matter, why was he in a wheelchair? Was he paralyzed?

“We’ll need to wake him to find out,” Shayla replied grimly. She stood back, taking another moment to look him over. “Stay with him while I go mix something up. Won’t be a but a minute.”

“Okay,” I murmured, feeling a little disconcerted to be alone with this strange man, even though he was unconscious.

As Shayla left the room, I leaned in toward him, peering into his face. His cheekbones were sharp, his lips shrewd and pursed. My eyes rose to his pale, slightly perspiring forehead, and then to his dusty blond hair. It was overgrown and unkempt, like the scruff on his jaw. And it looked unnaturally thin. Weakened and worn, just like the rest of him.

How long did those hunters keep him down there? I was burning with questions. I hoped Shayla would hurry up.

The witch returned after about five minutes, manifesting herself on the other side of the man’s bed. She was holding a cup of frothing beige liquid. She crouched over the man, parting his lips before pouring in a few drops. Then she clamped his jaw shut again and set down the cup on the bedside table.

We both watched him intently as the potion took effect. Gradually, his tired face began to show signs of life. His mouth twitched. Then his eyelids flickered. Gradually, they lifted open to reveal a pair of glazed, tawny-brown eyes.

For the first time, I witnessed expression on the man’s face. It twisted and contorted, coming alive with alarm and confusion. As I was standing closer to his direct line of vision, it was me he first set his eyes on. Yet, even as he looked at me, it felt as though he was not really seeing me. He blinked hard, his irises glassy and distant. He raised his hands to his face, brushing his fingers harshly against his eyes, before they shot down to the bedsheets. He gripped them, then, with an alarming clicking of his joints, he attempted to sit up. Before Shayla or I could ease him back down, his elbows collapsed beneath him. His head descended on the pillow and he began coughing violently. Specks of blood landed on his chest. Coughing blood.

“Need to fetch more medication,” Shayla said before hurrying off again.

There was not much I could do in the meantime but place a hand over his and try to offer him a thread of comfort. I had no idea what kind of trauma he had been through, and right now, I just wanted him to feel like he was safe. That we did not wish to harm him but only help him.

“Hey,” I said softly. “It’s okay.”

He seemed quite oblivious to my words as he continued to cough.

Shayla returned and fed him another potion. He resisted swallowing, but then, after Shayla insisted, he gulped hard and gradually his coughing diminished, giving way to heavy breathing.

I grabbed some tissues and dabbed the blood away from his chest and mouth.

I exchanged glances with Shayla.

“What’s your name?” the witch asked gently.

He squinted as his eyes fixed on her again. “My name,” he murmured. His voice was rasping and… British. “I-I don’t know.”

Shayla looked taken aback. “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I… I don’t remember.”

I bit my lower lip. He appeared to be suffering from some form of amnesia.

“Is there anything that you do remember?” Shayla asked.

The man groaned, shaking his head. Then he struggled again to sit up. I was afraid that he might start coughing up blood again, but Shayla assisted him, easing him up slowly, until he was resting at a forty-five-degree angle. He didn’t show signs of descending into another fit. His breathing was still labored, however. His lips parted slightly, his eyes glossing over, as though losing himself to a distant memory. “Needles,” he replied hoarsely. “I remember needles. And men. Men in black uniform. And coldness. Awful coldness.” He shivered even now. Of course, if he was a half-blood, he would suffer from acute coldness. I grabbed another blanket and placed it over him.

“That’s all you remember?” Shayla pressed.