“You’ll have to be quicker than that,” Fednor taunted. Then “Ow!” as a dart struck his left forearm, and “Ow!” again as two more punched the thick of his thigh. Everyone knew the sterile tips did no real harm; the danger came if you got hit in an artery. That was the object of the game: Hit your opponent’s artery before he could hit yours. One arterial hit and you were out.

Fednor and his team knew very well what that meant. When you were out, you were literally “out”: out of the game, out of consciousness, sometimes even out of your body, floating above until the medics could patch you up, pump you full of fluids, and wake you from your dark fantasy. It also meant (which was worse) that you were out of the game for at least a week.

Only flesh wounds so far, deep but clean, and spilling little blood. Then in a distracted instant came that familiar, deep ache. Before he could put words to his pain, all was black. He was gone. Again. When he woke, though, he saw a sunny meadow, not the familiar hospital ward.