And I want to believe you,
When you tell me that it'll be okay.
I try to believe you,
But I don't.
–Avril Lavigne, Tomorrow

It was as if the entire school breathed a huge sigh of relief. Most of them didn't even know they were holding their breaths until word got out that Harry was awake, that he was fine, that he would probably be back in class by mid-week. But Ginny Weasley knew. She had had near-constant nightmares, her eyes were bloodshot and heavily shadowed, her lips were dry and pale. Her fingernails were bitten to the quick and her roots were showing. She had been wandering into the hospital wing as often as she could manage, she stopped paying attention in class. She cried, often.

Everyone believed that Harry would die. Those hours she had spent in the hospital wing, he looked so innocent there, so vulnerable. She had smoothed the blankets along his chest, feeling his strange breath, regular but not normal. It was too perfect. His flannel shirt was untwisted, the collar flat against his shoulders, the small, pearly buttons lined up properly, his legs straight and unmoving. His sheets were tucked into the mattress, like he was packaged up, like he was dead or nearly. His sheets should be kicked off, they should be mussed and a mess. There should a pile of socks and pants and t-shirts on the floor next to the bed, his shoes pulled off and left, the toe of one still propped against the heel of the other, shoelaces still tied. But he lay on his back, silent, breathing strangely, eyes shut. His clothes were tucked away in the closet, and nothing at all was right in the world. She tugged on the blankets a bit, loosened them up, giving herself the illusion of life in this bed, of living.

She had heard the news when she walked back into the sixth year girl's dorm after her shower. Parvati was there, in tears, talking to Penelope Masters, one of Ginny's roommates. Harry. In Gryffindor tower. Asleep. In his own bed. Neville had come to alert Hermione, and now the whole place was buzzing. Harry had woken up, Harry was not going to die after all.

She had pulled on her clothes and run to the boy's dorm, bursting into Harry's room. Ron was sitting on Harry's bed next to him, still in his pajamas, grinning like an idiot, mussing Harry's hair and laughing; Hermione was sitting opposite them, her eyes wet, smiling, holding Harry's hand. She was talking, something about school, about professor McGonagall and NEWTs; Harry himself was in his robes, with his flannel pajamas underneath, looking tired but happy. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked toward them in a daze.

"Heya, Gin!" Harry said as she crept up beside him, moving to stand beside his bed. His voice sounded sleepy and hoarse, confused, as though he had fallen asleep on a July evening and woke to find it Christmas day. Strangely normal with a sense of misplaced time. He looked as though he wasn't sure if his most recent dream had really ended yet, or if this were merely an extension of it. Ginny could almost still feel that strange rhythm of his breathing under her fingers, the absolute stillness of his body, the texture of his flannel shirt against the palms of her hands. The feeling had haunted her while she slept, while she propped up her head in history class; now it flooded her senses as she reached forward and touched his face. He smiled, leaned forward as she sat down on the mattress and he hugged her, a big bear hug. He felt strong, healthy, his breathing was normal. She pressed her cheek against his neck and breathed him in. He smelled soapy, like the sterility of hospital cleaners, like dry grass, chocolate, wool.

"Good to see you, Harry," she said softly. She thought she might cry. He hugged her a little tighter.

"Sorry to have worried you, Gin. It's okay now. I'm fine, I really am." She closed her eyes and promptly burst into tears.

Seamus had been the smart one and had run off to see Madam Pomfrey before breakfast, tears still streaming down his face, letting her know that her wayward patient had turned up in Gryffindor tower. When she arrived, looking around at them all suspiciously, as if they had collaborated and broke Harry out of her clutches, whammed him on the head with a cast iron frying pan until he woke up. She sighed and tut-tutted over Harry, touched his forehead, peered into his eyes, tapped his stomach, asked him how he felt.

"Tired," he said, grinning sleepily. Bed rest was recommended, and Madam Pomfrey almost insisted that he come back with her to the hospital wing. But Dumbledore, who ambled in shortly after Madam Pomfrey, put his hand on Harry's shoulder and smiled, suggesting that he would sleep just fine where he was, and that it certainly wouldn't do him any harm to be surrounded by his friends, his things, to sleep in his own bed. She relented, breakfast was brought to his room for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, and the rest of them filed out. Ginny felt profoundly jealous as Penelope tugged her along toward the Great Hall.

"I can't believe he's still alive," she whispered.

"I know," Ginny said, smoothing her hair out of her face. She didn't feel like talking, but Penelope clearly did.

"Well, perhaps it was a timed sort of thing, two weeks of unconsciousness and then the curse ends, and the victim wakes up. What a horrible thing. You'd think we'd have heard about it in Defense Against the Dark Arts." Ginny said nothing. "Perhaps this is the sort of thing they used to do in the olden days, when people would collapse like that and would get buried alive, waking up a few days later in a box. In the ground." She shivered.

Ginny twisted her lips, thinking about Death Eaters, Tom Riddle, Lucius Malfoy. She thought about the Chamber of Secrets, the depths of evil, how far they would and could go. Harry had told her about how he had watched them kill Cedric, how they had tied him to a gravestone and cut him, resurrecting You Know Who. She pictured what had happened to Neville's parents. It was not widely known, that story. Neville had told her once, on a cold night last year when she had found him sitting in a stairwell with his face in his hands. The depths of evil. It was scary, what they were prepared to do to people who could stand up to them. Harry was better then all of them, in the end. Harry was a survivor.

"Do you think it was You Know Who?" Penelope hissed as they turned a corner. One of the portraits raised an eyebrow at them.

"It was probably Malfoy." Ginny tugged on a pleat of her kilt.

"Dumbledore says it's not though."

Ginny merely gave her a look that said, do you really think Dumbledore would tell us if it were?

"He ought to be expelled," Penelope said, holdingthe door as they passed through in the Great Hall, which was already buzzing with the news. All eyes turned to them expectantly, and Ginny sighed.

"Yes." She saw Malfoy sitting in his usual place at the Slytherin table eating his breakfast, not looking up. Crabbe and Goyle were talking quietly to themselves, watching the Gryffindors. Ginny sent Malfoy a cold look that she hoped would translate into icy fingers against his spine. You lost again, Malfoy, she would say, if she could push thoughts into his head, if she were brave enough to shout it out across the room. Harry survived. You're a complete failure when it comes to destroying him. You will kill him over my dead body. She felt strong, tugging her hair back into a loose ponytail. Over my dead body. Malfoy didn't look up.

She saw Harry again after supper, sitting in the common room, a blanket around his legs. Ron was perched on the arm of his chair, chattering with Harry amiably, and Hermione sat on the floor, head resting against Harry's knee, reading. It had been a busy evening; the fat lady had been given instructions to allow students from other houses to enter in order to visit with Harry, since Harry couldn't leave and everyone was asking to see him. It was a bit hush hush, and for the most part only the sixth and seventh year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs arrived to pay their respects. It was rather like a wake, Ginny thought. A wake in reverse. Harry was all laid out, a blanket around him, wrapped in a sweater Ginny's mother had knitted for him, a pair of tattered slippers on his feet, his face pale, his eyes nearly shut; there were weeping women hovering around Harry and pumpkin juice and sweets on the table, left over from dinner. They came to touch him and see if the rumours were true. Yes. Harry Potter was still the Boy who Lived. The miraculous recovery, cursed to death again (as it was popularly believed) and come back to life with his sense of humour and goodwill intact. They wondered where the new scar was, peered at his forehead, his hands.

The Ravenclaws and the Hufflepuffs had left, and even most of the Gryffindors had begun to calm down and head up to bed when portrait opened again and the least likely person of all ambled through; Pansy Parkinson. Hermione narrowed her eyes and put her book aside. Ron stood.

"Can we help you?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Well, I didn't come for your help," Pansy responded smoothly. "I came to see how Mr. Potter was doing. Hello, Harry." She smiled with a broken kind of warmth, half-genuine, half-lost in a sea of false poise and decorum. She was pale and walked slowly; she wore her sweaters and skirts a bit looser than Ginny was used to seeing. Pansy was slim and attractive, her honey-blonde hair hung in perfect ringlets around her face. Her only unattractive feature, Ginny had noted long ago, were her hands; they were larger than they ought to be, long and thick, with wide fingernails and heavy knuckles. Perhaps objectively, held up against Hermione's hands, or Ginny's, Penelope's, Millicent's, Pansy's hands would seem small, or at least not large by any means; but when pressed against her own tiny body, propping up her delicate chin, fixing her elegant hair in the girl's washroom between classes, Pansy's hands seemed out of place, a mismatched element on an otherwise perfectly proportioned whole. When she dressed up, she often wore gloves. She was still wearing her school kilt and sweater, tie loosened. All of her clothing looked a little too big, as if she were wearing Millicent's shrunken things; slightly too loose and draping just a little off her body. Ginny wondered for a moment if she were pregnant and was trying to hide it.

Harry nodded. "Pansy," he said. He was already beginning to doze off again, but opened his eyes, laid his hands flat on the arms of the chair. "How nice of you to stop by."

Smooth as silk, Pansy slid forward and sat in the chair across from Harry, crossing her slim ankles delicately. "You look well, Harry, considering." She looked at him, from his feet to his face, slowly. Ginny felt a strange pang of jealousy before she remembered that this was Pansy Parkinson, daughter of Death Eaters, girlfriend of Draco Malfoy. Ginny huffed and hugged her knees, leaving her homework forgotten on the carpet. Pansy looked defiantly into Harry's face what seemed like a long time. Ginny was heartened to see Harry return her steely glare. "What happened to you?" she asked.

Ron scowled; Hermione was watchful, her legs tensed, ready to jump up. Harry chuckled. "Well, isn't that the question of the hour. I have no idea, I'm sure."

Ginny smirked. "Why don't you tell us, Pansy?" Pansy turned, her cold blue eyes locked with Ginny's. She had read in her history book that there was a time when people believed that in order to see, the eye needed to project feelers onto the object upon which it rested; that looking at someone's face was actually a matter of caressing them with these invisible fingers that translated the sense of touch into vision. Ginny had laughed about this fact when she read it, but now she understood where the idea originated. She imagined that she could feel the tentacles of Pansy's eyes on her, curling across her cheekbones, delving inside her mouth, around her ears, pressing wetly against her own eyes and she longed to blink and turn away. They had never spoken before, being in different houses, different years. Ginny wondered if Pansy even knew who she was. She closed her mouth, felt slightly nauseous.

"Tell you what, Weasley? Why do you imagine I would waste my time coming up into this godforsaken cupola if I knew the answer to my own question?" She touched her stomach and winced slightly, so slightly Ginny might have missed it if she weren't watching so carefully, if she hadn't been so unwilling to turn away. Suddenly Pansy's eyes softened a little, and she smiled coldly. Ginny did not relax. "Your roots are showing, Weasley. And your fingernails are a mess." Pansy turned away. Ginny felt defeated.

"Leave her alone." Harry was sitting up a little higher, his chest puffed out, his eyes narrowed, voice calm. Ginny smiled. Oh, Harry, she thought. Such a hero. "What do you want, Pansy?"

"Oh, I just thought you could tell me what happened to you, that's all," Pansy said smoothly. "After all, you can avoid Draco up here in the rafters. I can't. I'm a Slytherin. I want to know what he did to you, and how you managed to get better."

"Dumbledore says Malfoy didn't do this," Hermione said quickly. "You of all people should know that."

Pansy harrumphed. "Believe that old fool if you want to. I say, if you need to be around Draco Malfoy, keep your wand at the ready. I do." She pulled her blond wood wand out of her sleeve and Ron leapt in front of Harry.

"Get out of here, Pansy," he said loudly, fumbling with his own wand.

She laughed. "Jumpy, aren't we." She rose, tucked her wand back into her sleeve, and turned to look at Ginny. "You could be pretty without all that black stuff around your eyes." She walked swiftly to the portrait hole and disappeared.

Hermione exhaled slowly, and said, "Harry, we need to talk. Come on, you should get up to bed anyway." She helped Harry up, gave Ron a look, and took his arm as he walked slowly up the stairs to the seventh year boy's dorm. Ron sighed and gathered up the remains of the sweets and juice. Ginny sulked. Why did she have to get left out of everything?

       

Pansy was angry. How could Potter have recovered from her curse? She had seen the gnome, lying in the dirt, drooling. The Scandinavian girl had promised her that recovery was impossible. Constant pain, madness. Potter seemed to be neither in pain nor mad. She was baffled. It made no sense. The pain in her lower abdomen grew worse; she pushed her wand into her clothing, made them bigger in small degrees. She brought up her lunch in the girl's toilet outside Arithmancy class.

She wondered if this was what the Dark Lord had felt when he tried to kill him all those years ago. A simple curse, thrown just right. Destruction, the initial sense of power, of success. And then this sudden, dawning realization that he had failed somehow, without having made a single error, that the object of his curse had not succumbed. How frustrating, how endlessly disappointing.

She had aimed to destroy Potter and remind Draco of his responsibilities, of his future. She had been slightly rash, she had been angry. And she had clearly underestimated Draco's anger, his feelings about the Potter boy. But no matter now, on that score. Potter would never consider Draco a friend now, no matter what that foolish headmaster said. The rumours were more convincing anyway. And as for herself, she believed that she had solved that problem as well. She had made some inquiries, privately. Regeneration, medical attention, timing, cost, side effects. There was a witch in Lyon who promised her that her 'condition' was almost certainly reversible. She cooed reassuringly through the fire and looked at her sympathetically. "I've heard a lot of that complaint, darling. Men are such pigs. Let me see…how's mid-April?" Pansy agreed, sent the galleons by post. She wrote to her mother and mentioned her boredom with school, her growing desire to travel, wanting a bit of a vacation somewhere warm and lovely. The draughts, a pain in her legs. An invitation to stay for a time in the south of France, and would she mind terribly if Pansy didn't write her NEWTs? Her mother didn't seem surprised. "Darling," she wrote, "I'm impressed you've stayed as long as you did. How much would you like me to send? And, dearheart, please do write to me more often."

She had heard Draco's terse exchange with his mother several days later. He had sat in front of the small, private fire just off the Slytherin common room, cross-legged. He looked like a little boy, his hair mussed and scattered wildly around his face. There was something to be said for moving quietly, the sly motion of a woman who suspects something, who suspects everyone. She stood at the slightly open door, listening.

"Good evening, Mother." Draco said. The tone of voice made Pansy shiver. She had been in Draco arms many times, she had heard his bedroom voice, his sweet voice, the voice he used when he wanted something, needed something, when he was feeling affectionate. All of this paled in comparison to the tone of voice he used with his mother. Pansy knew that Draco loved almost nothing at all, and of the small number of things that he did have feelings about, he loved nothing more than he loved his mother. She grimaced. Matching up with Narcissa Malfoy would be a lifetime of challenge.

"Draco, darling, I'm so disappointed, I thought we were going to see you on Monday night. I had the house elves prepare all your favourite pastries, where on earth were you?"

"I'm so sorry, Mother."

"Well. Be that as it may. You father is somewhat angry with you. He wanted to introduce you to some of his friends. It's good for your career, you know, sweetness, I know how boring that can be, but can't you just do this for him? He worries about you so much."

"I know, Mother, I'm so sorry. It was…well, I arrived early, and Jan and I had an argument."

"Oh, I see." There was a pause. "Did you flounce off, darling?"

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"Well." Another pause. "I understand, sweetling, I do. You always were good at flouncing off. " She laughed. "You didn't throw anything, did you? I haven't seen that gray cat of yours today."

Draco laughed. "No, Mother. I didn't throw Amelia. I didn't throw anything, I just needed to get away from there. I should have just come straight to you."

"Well, I'm sorry too, darling. I shouldn't have let Jan into your library. That's your space and it should be yours alone. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes, yes of course. Has he gone now?"

"Oh, yes, he left early this morning. His father needed him home. I'm sure his mother missed him too, though not nearly as much as I miss you."

"Oh Mother! I miss you too."

"Will you come home? You know you don't need to suffer through all those nasty examinations. Your father has secured several possible positions for you….oh, I'd love to tell you all about them, but I forget the details. It sounds dreadfully boring to me, but I think you might enjoy it. Really, If you could just talk to your father's friends, make a bit of an appearance?"

"I promise I will, Mother. It's been such a strange term. I'm working hard on my studies. I'm keen to do well. It's important to me."

"Oh, I know it is, sweetheart, but I can't imagine why! You really don't need to! I would so love to see you at home. Promise me you'll think about it?"

"I'll think about it, Mother, I will."

"Good. What shall I tell your father?"

"That I'm sorry, and that I'll make it up to him. I promise. I'm just…quite distracted with school, and perhaps…well, certainly I'll be at his disposal as soon as the NEWTs are finished. I promise I'll not disappoint."

"Good. That's good, darling, he'll be happy to hear that. Yes, well, I suppose you always have been high strung, haven't you, like your father. My goodness. Where would you boys be without me? Sweetheart, you look awfully tired, have you been sleeping well?" The rest of the conversation went on about his health, his clothing, the draughts, meals. Pansy moved carefully away from the door and went up to her dorm, careful to avoid straining her stomach.

She did not go to the hospital wing, she did not tell Millicent what Draco had done. She told no one, other than the strange women in beaded gowns and strange, muslin turbans through the fireplace. No one would ever need to know, and Draco did not need hints that his misplaced attempt at revenge would come to nothing. She would be able to use it against him one day, she would make him collapse in a heap and beg for her forgiveness. The woman in Lyon told her to bathe in lavender and bergamot, to drink silkworm bile in the mornings to keep her wounds fresh and ready for healing. She snuck into Draco's room and stole money to pay for this, which seemed entirely just to her.

On one of her sly missions to find Draco's money pouch, she came across the strangest thing. A rectangular bottle, filled with a clear liquid. It had a clear cap and a thick bottom. When she looked through it, everything looked slightly transparent; Draco's bed, the trapdoors on the ceiling, the trunks. She could almost see through them. When she looked through the bottle, she saw Draco's folded sweaters, his socks balled up in the truck. Through the velvety curtains of Draco's bed she saw the ornate headboard, blankets carefully folded, a dent in the pillow as though someone had lain there after the bed was made. The small black label along the cap of the bottle read, "Veritaserum, 1 pint." She tucked it into her pocket along with the galleons, and imagined how useful such a treasure could be, if she planned everything just right.

       

Harry couldn't believe how exhausted he was. His limbs felt leaden, it took all of his energy just to keep his eyes open, to smile at the well-wishers. Two weeks unconscious, and he remembered none of it. As he slept in the afternoon, he had terrible dreams. He found himself bound and gagged, paralyzed, terrified, locked into his own skull, in a dark room, with a constant droning sound in his ears like screaming, like howling, like crying. At some point in the dream he realized that the sound was coming from his own lips and he jolted half awake, and then fell into another dream. Voldemort, standing in front of him while he was bound, his eyes taped open, a tongue like a snake slithering out of Voldemort's mouth, through the air between them and brushing across Harry's chest, his throat, the snake's tongue darting out against his chin, on his lips. Hearing Ron's voice, talking, laughing with someone, walking past along the edge of the Forbidden Forest, not looking, not knowing Harry standing there, bound, gagged, unable to scream. Ron was walking into a nest of Death Eaters, Hermione hanging from a tree by her hair. His last dream, before Ron woke him for dinner, was of warmth, of water, hands on his skin, a sense of peace. A warm, wet chest against his back, lips on his neck. He dreamed that he was in an endless ocean of warm, salty water that embraced him, kissed him, soothed him. The sun was high in the sky and hot, his limbs tingled. He was standing, looking at the water that lapped at his thighs, he felt lips again on his earlobe and turned. There was no one there, just a lush forest, and sand.

Ron and Hermione explained what had happened. He remembered cutting himself, he remembered Malfoy grabbing his wand. He didn't know more than that, but he hadn't been looking at Malfoy, he was looking at his thumb, looking for his handkerchief to sop up the blood, to press the wound closed. Hermione and Ron didn't want to talk about what happened directly after, but they told him that he had broken a lot of bones somehow. They had tried to contact Sirius, but he was working and unreachable. Harry was somehow glad of this. His godfather would have worried, he would have felt responsible. They told him how Dumbledore had tested their wands, how he had tested Malfoy's extra carefully. Two weeks of lying still. Harry tensed the muscles in his legs, testing them as if asking them if it was true. Two weeks immobile? Can I feel that, now, would my body tell me? His legs felt slightly stiff, leaden, tired.

Dumbledore had talked to him later, while he lay drowsing in his bed. Over the holidays, where had he been? Had he seen anyone odd? Did he eat anything or touch anything unusual? Harry explained what he could, but there were no leads that he was aware of. He felt sorry, he felt impossibly useless. He had no better idea than they had. Dumbledore did not ask him about Malfoy, but did say, gently, before he left him to sleep, "I'm sorry about your new fencing foil, Harry. The Ministry thought it best to test it thoroughly, they've taken it. I don't believe they will come up with anything, however. Quite unfortunate." This confused Harry, but the next morning Ron explained.

"They thought it might be cursed, you see," Ron said, a bit bashfully. Harry just frowned and chewed on a croissant from his breakfast tray.

Hermione had pulled him aside privately later, after Pansy had come asking for clues. She tucked him into bed while the others were still down in the common room, discussing Pansy's odd appearance and then rapid exit through the portrait hole. Harry was a bit surprised to discover that Pansy and Malfoy had had a falling out; as far as he knew, Draco and Pansy were a bit of an item, or, at least, they had been, off and on. Though, the doings of Slytherins were a bit mystifying to Harry, and he didn't dare make any guesses about who was paired with whom. On second thought, he wondered if they mightn't still be a pair, and Pansy just didn't trust him. Well, neither would I.

Hermione told him about what happened the night before. She had fallen asleep beside his bed, she had heard noises down the hall. In the potions room, she had found Draco Malfoy, frantically searching through bottles, looking for something. "Hyssop. I'm pretty sure it was hyssop. Completely innocuous." The broken glass, the powered bean sprouts that she swept into a pan and disposed of. She waited up as long as she could, looked up the herb in a medical book and confirmed that it was harmless, and then went to bed. "The next thing we knew, Harry, you were okay."

"You think there's a connection?"

"I don't know. It seems like a rather odd coincidence. Perhaps he did curse you and then felt guilty about it, maybe the hyssop was part of the cure. Though, that seems unlikely."

"I'd say. Guilty? Malfoy?"

"It was just a thought. I honestly don't know, Harry, really I don't."

"Could hyssop possibly be the cure?" Harry was fading, his eyes drifting shut.

"I've been looking into it," Hermione sighed. "It's hard to tell, not knowing what happened. But I mentioned it to Madam Pomfrey today, and she assures me that while hyssop is known as an anti-inflammatory and an emmenagogue, it could not possibly bring someone out of a coma."

"Emmenagogue?"

"Don't ask. She figures you just came out of it on your own, they can't work out what might have pushed you into a coma in the first place, what might have forced all your bones to break at once."

Harry winced, and was glad he didn't remember all of this. "So what does this mean about Malfoy?"

"I don't know. I just…well, Harry, you know I have no warm feelings toward him, but I wouldn't want him to be unfairly demonized if…well, I just don't know. He was very upset when I saw him, and if that counts for anything, we know that that foil had nothing to do with this. I can't believe he sent you a present. I mean, a present! From Malfoy! When I first heard about it I was suspicious, and I still am, but when I saw him last night…I suppose…well, perhaps we should just reserve judgment on Malfoy altogether for a while. Could be a red herring, it's just too easy. Ron won't be easy to convince. I'm not convinced myself." She sighed. "As far as I can tell, Malfoy may or may not have cursed you, and he may or may not have cured you. You're falling asleep, aren't you."

"Yes, I think so."

"Well. Alright then."

The following day he felt better, but still terribly tired. He managed to stay awake until just after lunchtime, and then collapsed into bed again. He dreamed about flying, about cold air on his skin, gray sky and mist. He dreamed about looking down into water, seeing Hermione there, asleep, her arms hanging at her sides, her legs dangling downward into a gloomy and muddy lake bottom. He dreamed of Malfoy with a bouquet of marigolds, hovering over his bed. In the dream he looked at the marigolds and knew that it was hyssop, and that it was harmless. He watched Malfoy take a thick, ugly black knife and slice open Harry's stomach. He looked very serious, very absorbed, the way he did when he was slicing roots in Potions class. When Harry's stomach was entirely sliced open and laid bare, Malfoy began to shove the flowers inside of him. Harry watched and thought, "Hyssop. Harmless. I'll be fine." It felt like new skin rubbed against cloth; sore, but necessary. He wondered how deeply Malfoy would slice into him, how deadly he could be. He wondered if he should be afraid.

At dinner he was joined for a lavish meal in the Gryffindor common room by the other seventh years, who all toasted his health. No one mentioned Malfoy, and Harry was glad for that. He hoped that the following day he would have enough energy to work out what to do next.

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