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patient back from death’s door? How many times had she wished she could do the same for their dying marriage?
    His hip twinged painfully, and Styx—to his surprise—was glad.
    It took Styx an eternity to climb the steps to the dike. He had to stop twice to catch his breath, and, by the time he reached the top, his limbs were aching. He couldn’t lift his right leg from the ground but had to drag it along behind him. At least he could still feel it.
    From the dike, he looked out across Ostend, the queen of the Belgian seaside resorts, out past the stately buildings and empty streets shrouded in darkness to the Maria Hendrika Park in the distance.
    He felt free, free—now that he wasn’t dead—from the fear of death. He felt like the monarch of all he surveyed. He stood there, admiring the night and the moon, much as, a few hours earlier, he’d stood at the Stuffer’s window and marveled at the beauty of the setting sun.
    Halfway down the street, he saw three figures approaching. They wove drunkenly left and right, bumped into one another and bounced off in opposite directions, on their way from Pub A to Pub B—or, by now, from Pub X to Pub Y. They laughed unselfconsciously, exuberantly, at each collision.
    As he came down the last few steps, he tried to avoid them, but in the dim glow of the streetlights they drifted closer.
    â€œJesus, get a load of this guy,” one of them giggled.
    â€œWhat happened to you, man?” said another.
    The third one only stared. Styx stared back at him. Under other circumstances, he would have arrested them for public drunkenness, but not tonight.
    â€œWhat hole did you crawl out of, you ugly fuck?” the first one challenged him.
    Styx didn’t respond. His tongue felt heavy, his mouth still clogged with dried blood.
    â€œLay off,” said the third man, breaking his silence. “Can’t you see the guy’s hurt?”
    The third man’s hand clamped down on his shoulder. “You okay, buddy?” he asked, his mouth so close to Styx’s ear that he could feel his breath.
    His shoulder jerked upward involuntarily, as if the drunk had touched a raw nerve.
    â€œCalm down,” the man said. “I just wanna know if you need us to get you to the hops—the hospital.”
    â€œLeave ’im be,” the first man slurred. “He jus’ had hisself a rough night, like us. Right, buddy?”
    Styx looked the three caballeros up and down.
    â€œI’m okay,” he said.
    â€œSay, whyn’t you join us for a li’l nightcap?” the first one proposed. “One more drink before beddy-byes.”
    But the other two demurred. They were done for the day.
    â€œYou sure we can’t drop you someplace?”
    â€œI’m just heading home,” said Styx.
    They were eyeballing him like he’d been marinating in a bucket of tar. The third one seemed reluctant to abandon him. He staggered right up to Styx and held up a hand and waved it in little circles, as if trying to decide what part of him to pet. His cheek? His lips? His hair?
    â€œSomebody really did a number on you, huh? Lemme guess. The new bouncer in the Cocoon Club, right? He’s a real prick.”
    â€œDon’t worry about it,” said Styx.
    â€œWe got nothin’ against you, man. We’re jus’ sym . . . pathetic.”
    Styx turned away and walked off—or shuffled off. His right leg was deadweight, but Dr. Vrancken had promised him that a little exercise would be the ticket. One step at a time.
    â€œ. . . oughta take a look in a mirror,” he heard one of the drunkards say.
    He passed the darkened shop windows of the Kapellestraat and saw his silhouette reflected in the glass. Behind him, the tipsy trio turned a corner and, with a howl that could have come from a wolf in the lost forest of Gistel, disappeared into the night.
    Styx pulled up before a clothing store. The display