I writhed in an agony of anticipation, impatience, and fear: anticipation for the glorious day when I could leave the sheepfold behind forever, impatience for that day’s arrival, and fear that I would yet be denied. I itched and groaned for leaving. However, the healing of my body would not be hurried. My head and ribs remained sore and tender to the touch, my broken arm still throbbed when I moved it, and the splint was heavy and made my shoulder ache. Sionan continued her daily visits and insisted she could tell I was getting better, though I was far from certain. True, I no longer needed help to walk, but I grew breathless if I went too far or too fast. Sometimes, when I tried to do too much, my head began to ache and dark spots swam before my eyes so that I had to lie down and rest until they went away. Each night I went to sleep thinking that the next day my healing would be complete, only to awaken the next morning to find that nothing had changed. Summer was passing, and I felt a sense of rank futility growing in me—as if the good thing promised would never come to be or that it would be withdrawn before I reached it.
