Any time you couldn't find a spare drop or four of phoenix blood, a sickbed turned into a prison. He couldn't imagine laying on a cot for the six weeks that the medic recommended. Oh, of course, it took at least a week for the fever to die down and the shoulder to feel well enough for a sling. Even that felt like a betrayal. As if his body had given everything it could, and whose fault was it - other than his - that he had to lay here? Skandra could have gone insane, if he hadn't started that particular journey long ago. Being well on his way, there was nothing to do but read. This particular room was full of texts. Bookshelves adorned the wall next to every bed. And a near half, maybe less, of the men who occupied these cots could actually read.

( That was the best joke he saw while laid up. )