Either the ship was losing atmosphere at a rate that would turn it into a death trap in a matter of minutes, or the cold she was suffering from had plugged up her nose to such an extent that breathing through it had become a problem.

River couldn’t be sure. Insufficient data.

She opened her mouth, and airflow recommenced.

She was hot. Her coat opened up as buttons moved through well-matched buttonholes, and it slid off her to the ground as she stretched out her arms behind her and leant backwards. Still hot. Her sweater was Angora wool. From goats. Not sheep. It went over her head, but there her arms got stuck in the sleeves.

Meanwhile, her feet kept going one in front of the other, carrying her where she was going, a complex system of muscular tension, balance and a connection to the deck beneath her boots that would paradoxically, inexorably fall apart if too much thought was applied to it.

“River? Child, are you all right?” She could hear the voice, but she could not see the man. The voice was serene, reassuring. It was the preacher. Book. Bible. More than he seemed. Quiet inside. Quiet, but warm.

“I’m fine. I’m stuck in superfluous garments.” He should have been able to see that. It was obvious, and he was not the one with the sweater over his eyes.

“Ha! Indeed. Well, let me give you hand with that.” Strong hands began to untangle the sweater. But he was doing it the wrong way! He was putting it back on her, not taking it off at all. She resisted.

“You should probably keep this on, River,” he said. “You have quite the cold. I could hear you coughing from my bunk last night.”

Her head plopped back out into the light again, the Angora-darkness receding as fast as sleep came after the needle. She shook her head. “My hair is a mess.”

It really was, half of the long strands still caught under the collar of her sweater, the rest curled over her face and on top of her head. Shepherd Book’s face was in front of her, smiling fatherly. *Her* father hadn’t come for her, and she’d waited and