The first days after the rescue blurred for Harlan into a haze of pain, fever, and strange voices. He vaguely remembered Garret leaving, the promise given to the Hermit, and the treatment process itself.

  One morning he opened his eyes, and his head had cleared. Looking around, he realized he was in a completely unfamiliar place. Or rather, first he saw only the ceiling of an unfamiliar room: painted clean white, with two huge wooden beams reinforcing the structure. A small pouch of aromatic herbs hung from one of the beams. It filled the room with the scent of forest and meadow herbs simultaneously.

  “Pinky, let’s go check on our patient—but you stay outside for now,” a voice came from the corridor.

  The door opened, and a tall gray-haired man stepped in. Sharp gray eyes behind round glasses. A long beard, neatly braided. Dressed simply: a coarse shirt, a leather vest. Hands covered in scars—old, whitened ones.

  He clearly didn't expect to see Harlan conscious, as he didn't even glance at him. He walked up to a small table and set down a tray with various instruments.

  “Who are you?… Where am I?…” Harlan’s questions caught the old man off guard.

  The host nearly jumped, but regained his composure instantly, turned, and declared as if nothing had happened:

  “Your Employer. And you’re at work.”

  Without letting him say another word, he unceremoniously approached Harlan, pried open his eyes one by one and peered intently into the pupils, then—for some reason—into his ear. Harlan had no strength to resist. His body barely obeyed; even moving his head or speaking took great effort.

  “Aha, so finally conscious and stopped raving, excellent, excellent,” he muttered.

  Harlan tensed involuntarily. The host looked at him as if he were a test subject, not a human being.

  “Well then, can you move your hands?” the Hermit finally glanced at Harlan over his glasses.

  “I think so…”

  Harlan tried to lift his arms. Every movement came with great difficulty, but he managed to raise his right hand briefly and wiggle his fingers. The left did not obey at all.

  “Excellent, wonderful,” he muttered. “Then we’re ready to sign the contract.”

  “Contract?” Harlan croaked.

  “Of course, this isn’t a resort. You enter the position, true, later,” he carefully examined Harlan from head to toe, “for now you’ll be on sick leave. I’ll be right back.”

  “Wai—” slipped from the patient’s tongue.

  But the host was no longer listening. He opened the door and marched off somewhere briskly.

  When he returned with a stack of papers, Harlan was asleep again.

  The Hermit looked at him, puzzled, and muttered:

  “Uh, uh, fine, I’ll leave it here for now.”

  ?

  “Aha, awake, wonderful,” the old man stood up and walked over to Harlan, noticing movement in the bed.

  The patient opened his mouth to answer, but the Hermit stopped him with a sharp gesture, looking the other way.

  Harlan clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. This man hadn’t even asked how he felt.

  “Anyway, here is the standard contract. I won’t read the whole thing, just the key points.”

  He immediately began listing:

  “Three-year contract without the right of termination by the employee;

  “Employer may terminate the contract unilaterally without prior notice;

  “Standard sixteen-hour workday…”

  “Uh, wait,” Harlan couldn’t hold back, “what do you mean sixteen-hour?”

  “Why? You have a problem with that?” he asked over his glasses. “Standard practice for research assistants. When you were hunting your rocks, you worked twenty-eight-hour shifts and were fine with it. So let’s do without these… ramblings.”

  The old man adjusted his glasses, rustled the paper, and continued listing in a monotone bureaucratic voice:

  “Let’s see, where did we stop… You assume the position of research assistant…”

  He thought for a second, and suddenly said:

  “No, that’s too rich, some assistant,” he again carefully examined Harlan from head to toe, “right, you’ll be ‘Household Maintenance.’”

  The “Employer” thickly crossed out something right on the contract with a pen, and signed over the old text.

  Then he mumbled again:

  “Duties: cleaning utility and living quarters, groundskeeping, taking readings from test samples… uh… cooking,” he added something in writing again.

  “Now for bonuses:

  “Two meals per day;

  “Monetary compensation not provided;

  “Vacation and weekends not provided;

  “Well, is everything clear?” the mage, pleased with himself, shifted his gaze to Harlan.

  “Can I refuse?” he said with faint hope.

  “Of course, I’m not a beast.” It was said in a very soft voice. “If you want to refuse—no problem! In that case, pack your things—they’re right there in the corner. Just please vacate my premises within the next fifteen minutes.”

  The host looked at Harlan with a sweet smile, but his eyes held a coldness not found even in the northern Wildlands.

  *“A choice without a choice, I think I said that already… to Garret,”* Harlan vaguely recalled that conversation. *But he definitely wouldn’t mind waking up in his cabin right now, drinking terrible coffee, and discussing the next expedition.*

  Harlan tried to move his leg, but didn't feel anything happen.

  “I agree to the terms, let’s sign,” he said quietly.

  “That’s better,” the mage declared victoriously.

  He kindly helped Harlan hold the pen in his barely moving hand and make a semblance of a signature.

  There was only one copy of the contract. And the old man took it with him.

  ?

  When the old man left, Harlan stared at the ceiling. His chest felt empty and heavy at the same time. And then suddenly came memories and horrors of that day.

  “Thorren, Mark…” sad thoughts didn’t take long to arrive.

  Though they were much older, they treated him as a comrade, a friend; they accepted him. In a few months, he had grown very attached to them. And of course, Garret…

  Suddenly, his thoughts took a twisted turn, and another frightening memory intruded: he had shot a man!

  Even if it was like a fog back then, now, closing his eyes, he saw every detail in slow motion—chaotic shots, the body falling, the dying man’s convulsions.

  Nausea rose to his throat, but his stomach was absolutely empty, so it led to nothing but spasms.

  *“Breathe, Harlan, breathe…”* he told himself.

  He breathed deeply, concentrating only on his breathing and counting to himself: one… two… seventy-five… one hundred twenty-five…

  It helped. Trying to switch gears so as not to return to that state, Harlan decided to think about objects in the room and small details. But his stomach, which only five minutes ago planned to jump out, now treacherously growled with hungry howls.

  The very thought of food disgusted Harlan after what he had been thinking about. But his stomach continued to rumble and ache. After a while, the boy gave in.

  “Hey, old man!” he shouted loudly a few times.

  A few minutes later the door opened, and a disgruntled figure appeared.

  “What do you want?” the host grumbled.

  “According to the contract, I get two meals. Are you planning to violate the terms of the agreement?”

  It was unclear whether it was the weak light of the gray sky from the small window under the ceiling falling on the doorway, or if the old man’s face simply went white. But after a pause, he replied in a calm voice:

  “You’ll get food, don’t worry.”

  “Thank you, Employer.”

  *“You want formalities?”* Harlan smirked to himself. *“You haven’t seen my foreman at the mine yet.”*

  ?

  Half an hour later, the door opened. The host brought in a tray with soup and bread.

  The tray was hospital-style, one that could be placed on the bed.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  “Eat,” he grunted and set the tray right on the bed.

  Harlan tried to sit up, but his body wouldn’t obey. The mage sighed and helped him. Lifted him and propped him against the wall, putting pillows behind him first.

  But even that didn’t help; his hands still weren’t functioning normally, and the Hermit had to feed Harlan like a little one, from a spoon.

  “Thank you,” Harlan said quietly when he finished the last spoon.

  The boy noted that during this whole procedure, the host didn’t snark, just silently fed him, that’s all.

  When they finished, he took the tray and said before leaving: “I’ll come in half an hour, we’ll do treatment.”

  The door closed and from behind it came:

  “Pinky, don’t get underfoot.”

  Footsteps sounded down the corridor—not of two, but several legs.

  *“Is Pinky a person? Or a dog?”* Harlan wondered.

  ?

  “Who is Pinky?” Harlan couldn’t resist asking when the Hermit returned.

  “Your senior colleague,” he grunted, “will be your boss.”

  *“A person after all,”* Harlan thought. *“That’s good, at least I won’t be seeing just this one brazen mug.”*

  “Lie still and don’t move, whatever you feel,” the Hermit told Harlan.

  “Alright.”

  The old mage began the session. Harlan tried to record his sensations.

  At first, it wasn’t painful at all. Pleasant warmth spread through his body and it became very comfortable.

  Then, comfort sharply changed to pain. Harlan groaned, it felt like he was being boiled from the inside.

  “Lie still! You twitch—you stay a cripple,” the old man hissed through his teeth.

  Then pleasant warmth again… and pain again.

  *“Where have I ended up? He’s a natural sadist,”* all Harlan could think about was being angry at the nasty old man. *But it was still a choice without a choice.*

  The session lasted over an hour and ended when the mage turned bright red and large drops of sweat began to run down his wrinkled face into his beard. From a proud elder, he turned into a squeezed lemon.

  The lemon was squeezed, but still sour. Leaving, he shoved a pill into the patient and declared:

  “Once you’re on your feet, great achievements await us.”

  Harlan grimaced. He waited a few minutes and tried to move. His body obeyed slightly better. Even the left hand he managed to lift a little for the first time.

  *“Maybe he’s not so bad?”* Harlan thought, but then remembered the contract. *“No. Definitely terrible.”*

  ?

  Harlan received regular breakfasts, lunches, dinners. He still couldn’t eat on his own, and the Hermit fed him.

  *“Three meals, by the way, and the contract says two…”* Harlan was lost in guesses about what this would mean in the future, but said nothing aloud.

  After lunch, the mage always conducted a treatment session. After each one he was exhausted, even holding onto the wall as he left the room.

  Harlan, on the contrary, felt better each time.

  Despite the repulsive rudeness and sharpness, one had to admit the old man knew his business.

  Nothing else happened. Harlan counted imaginary cats, talked to himself, made bets on the first word the Employer would say entering the room.

  “Are there other people here? Other workers? When will you introduce us?” he asked one day.

  And he was answered briefly:

  “Everything in its time. While you’re idle, others work.”

  Thinking a little, the Hermit added:

  “Can you read?”

  “Of course. Are there those who can’t?” Harlan replied.

  “Excellent, since you have nothing to do, I’ll bring you a book.”

  And he brought it—*Encyclopedia of Household Life. Everything from Repairing Toilet Leaks to the Crystal Engine.* Author: John Johnson.

  “What the…?”

  ?

  Somewhere toward the end of the second week since Harlan stopped raving, he managed to prop himself up on his elbows and tried to wield a spoon himself. It worked.

  When the Hermit saw this, he immediately smiled and muttered:

  “Excellent... Excellent! Now yourself.”

  Then he moved the utensils and tray closer to the patient and left immediately. Harlan just opened his mouth in surprise.

  But the treatment continued according to plan. Slowly but surely, Harlan was coming back to normal.

  “Get up, don’t lie there like a dead reptile,” the old man grunted one morning. “Life doesn’t like the lazy.”

  “I just…” Harlan began, but a wooden stick whistled into him, flying from the corner of the room on its own. This was something new.

  “Less talk, more action,” he snorted. “And don’t dare complain. You’re doing better than most.”

  “Ow,” Harlan rubbed his bruised shoulder, “what for?”

  “Get up, you’re told.”

  *“A real monster! I was right!”* Harlan was in shock.

  The stick rose into the air again. And only now did it dawn on Harlan—it’s magic! Moreover, the ease with which the old man handled it was striking and turned it all into an ordinary skill.

  Not wanting to get hit again, he followed the command and was surprised himself as he… stood up!

  He didn’t last long; a couple of seconds later he went limp, barely holding onto the bed with his hand. But he will be able to walk!

  *“Maybe I can even escape this place?”* Harlan daydreamed… and with difficulty climbed back onto the bunk.

  “Weakling,” the old man just grumbled, clipped his weapon to his belt, and left the room.

  The door closed silently.

  “Let’s go, Pinky, too early for you to meet him,” came from the corridor.

  “Rfrf,” replied, obviously, Pinky.

  *“What was that?”* Harlan wondered.

  ?

  John Johnson’s book was strange, if one could say that.

  It really had everything from fixing a toilet to a crystal engine, but the bias was clearly towards toilets. If toilets were described from all sides: from mechanical to crystalline, and the description took up literally a third of the book, then about engines there was only one page with dry theoretical ideas.

  For whom exactly this book was written, Harlan never understood.

  Of course, that wasn’t all the information. It also contained a little bit of everything: from drilling holes in walls with mechanical drills to roofing in bad weather conditions.

  *“Maybe this is a manual for temp workers?”* Harlan assumed.

  Considering he would be maintaining the house, something would come in handy. So he reread the handbook again.

  “Got any more?” he asked the host, handing back the book.

  “What, already read it?” the old man was surprised. “Hm, fine. Not sure I have anything else on engineering, but I’ll look for something.”

  “You so interested in toilets? Surely something else is lying around,” Harlan quipped.

  “You don’t say,” he replied with a smirk. “You walk to one yourself first, Bedpan-Man.”

  That hurt. The bedpan Harlan had been using all this time, he tried not to notice. He was embarrassed and didn’t know what to answer.

  But the other was unstoppable. In the same businesslike tone, he continued:

  “And now, Mr. Harlan, show us how you walk.”

  Harlan got up from the bed and walked a couple of steps to the wall. He stood there for a couple of seconds and slid down to the floor.

  “Can’t go further…”

  “What do you say, hm, I’ll look for a new book for you on bedpan repair. Very useful,” there was no mercy in the old man’s eyes.

  Nevertheless, he lifted Harlan and laid him on the bed.

  When the Hermit left, he lingered briefly at the closed door. From behind it came an angry shout and something like “Damn you.”

  The old man smiled with satisfaction and went about his business.