I had expected more enthusiasm, but she acted as if it were just a necessary chore. The orders were in my name, on my debit card. No digital mention o... Sabbath Armstrong. Nor of her HAVEN name — Helen Corrigan.That was the easy part of her path toward recovery. Her rehabilitation would probably be more mental than physical. The psychological scars were, I imagined, far deeper inside her head than those on the outside. She didn’t have screaming nightmares, but would suddenly fling herself. "Better," I said, touching my forehead. "Think we ought to look at this?"She untied the bandage, and I found that my other eye still worked but was open barely a slit. I touched the scab at my eyebrow and asked, "How does it look?"She nodded and smiled. "I seen worse. Looks like you lost a hunk of eyebrow, maybe a bit a'bone. I ain't had a man in some time," she said, touching my brow lightly. "I got the itch for some swiving." Doubt I could do you much good," I said, covering her exploring. More

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