I sit and stare at Poppy as she plays with the puppies, smiling, happy, completely healthy with no indication she had been dead only a short time ago. The others have come to see her, though only Beckett knows the truth. Socrates suspects something has happened, eyeing me carefully as he smiles at the girl's antics. But he says nothing, shows no concern, so I know, whatever I've done to her, he won't use it against me.

I've healed her. There is no other explanation. Poppy was ...