As he sat up in his bed, Doctor West and Doctor Varma stood beside him. They watched, scarcely breathing, as Christine slowly began to unwrap the bandages.

  Strange was nervous. Frightened. Feelings he wasn’t used to, feelings he didn’t like.

  The bandages continued to unravel. Strange gasped. Did it hurt? Was it phantom pain? Was it his mind? Was there a difference?

  At last, the bandages were off.

  “No.”

  “You’ve been in splints for months,” West offered. “Give your body time.”

  The hands that Stephen Strange saw were not his, he was sure of it. They couldn’t be; it was an impossibility. These hands were a lattice of angry red scars. He raised the hands that weren’t his, and watched, helpless, as they shook.

  The room was silent as Strange turned his gaze on West, then to Varma. Then, at last, to Christine.

  “You’ve ruined me,” he spat.

  No one said anything.

  Strange stared at nothing.

  Weeks had passed since the accident. Months. Maybe years? Strange could no longer tell how long it had been. Time had ceased to mean anything. He was no longer a surgeon, he had nowhere to be, and he had nowhere to go. Nowhere. That’s exactly where he was.

  “Squeeze my hand now.… Harder. Show me your strength.”

  Strange looked up at the physical therapist. He was a big guy, burly. The kind of person who could snap you in two, the kind of person you tried to keep on their good side.

  Where was he? When was he? Physical therapy. That’s right. He had been out of the hospital for some time. He stared at the fluorescent light above, the chipped paint on the walls. The old steel furniture.

  Strange nodded, then gasped as he tried to squeeze the therapist’s hand. The muscles in his face twitched, and sweat formed at his shaggy hairline, trickling down toward his untrimmed beard.

  He might as well not have bothered to squeeze at all.

  “This is useless,” he said, dejected.

  “It’s not useless,” the therapist responded. “You can do this.”

  Strange rolled his eyes in frustration. “Right. Let me ask you, Bachelor’s Degree: Have you ever known anyone with nerve damage this extensive to ‘do this’ and actually recover?”

  Strange gestured with his head toward the angry red scars. They had faded somewhat, but the hands that weren’t his still shook. They had a perpetual tremor. The therapist massaged Strange’s hands and fingers, working along the joints. He cocked his head, pondering Strange’s question. Then he gave a slow nod.

  “One,” he said.

  Now it was Strange’s turn to cock his head. He looked at the therapist. Not through him, but at him.

  “Factory accident,” the therapist began. “Broke his back. Paralyzed. His legs wasted away. Had pain from his wheelchair. Came in three times a week. Then one day he stopped coming. I thought he died.”

  Strange listened, enraptured.

  “A few years later, he walked past me on the street.”

  “Walked?” Strange said, incredulous.

  “Yeah, walked.”

  Strange’s mind raced, like it did when he was performing neurosurgery, or searching for a song on satellite radio, or impatiently passing a slow-moving vehicle.

  “What was the patient’s name?” Strange asked.

  “Pangborn, I think,” said the therapist.

  “Pangborn,” Strange said aloud. Not Jonathan Pangborn? he thought.

  It was bright out in New York City, and a haggard, humbled Stephen Strange staggered along the street until he came to a basketball court. A group of men were playing. Strange had been waiting and watching for weeks, and now he spotted someone he recognized. The person he wanted to see, needed to see.

  “Jonathan Pangborn,” Strange said as he approached one of the basketball players. A man spun around, tall, erect. He stared at Strange, uncomfortable.

  “You were a C-seven-C-eight spinal-cord injury. Complete.”

  The man looked around at his fellow players. He stepped away, and Strange followed. He stared at Strange. “Who are you?” he said.

  “You were paralyzed,” Strange continued, ignoring him. “Mid-chest down. Partial paralysis in both hands.”

  “I don’t know you,” said the man abruptly.

  Strange tried to tone down his intensity. “My name’s Stephen Strange. I’m a surgeon. I was a surgeon. But…”

  Strange shrugged as he pulled his useless hands from the pockets of his shabby overcoat. He raised them to eye level, and the man watched them shake uncontrollably.

  Jonathan Pangborn stared at Strange, a pitiful stare.

  “Actually, I do know you. I came to your office,” Pangborn said. “I never got past your assistant.”

  “You were untreatable.”

  “No glory for you in that, right?”

  Strange looked away and took a breath. “Yet you came back from a place there’s no way back from,” Strange said quietly. “I… I’m trying to find my own way back.”

  From nothing, Strange thought. From the nothing I have now.

  He thought of Christine.

  Pangborn considered Strange, meeting his gaze. Behind them the basketball game was about to resume. The players waved at Pangborn to join them, but he dismissed them with a wave in return and walked with Strange.

  “I’d given up on my body,” Pangborn whispered. “I thought, My mind’s all I have left. Let me at least elevate that.”

  Sounds familiar, Strange thought.

  “I sat with gurus and wise women. Strangers carried me up mountains to see holy men. And finally I found my teacher in an unexpected place. And my mind was elevated, and my spirit deepened, and unexpectedly—”

  “Your body was healed,” Strange said, completing Pangborn’s sentence.

  Pangborn nodded. “There were deeper secrets to learn there. But I didn’t have the strength to receive them. There were lessons, obligations… truths I wasn’t ready for. So I chose to settle for my miracle and go home.” His tone was wistful, sad.

  For a moment, there was silence.

  “The place you’re looking for is called Kamar-Taj. But the cost there is high. Higher than you think.”

  “How much?” asked Strange.

  “I’m not talking about money. That’s all I can tell you. It’s more than I should,” Pangborn said, then turned back to the basketball game, walking away slowly.

  Strange stared as the man who shouldn’t—couldn’t—be walking away did exactly that.

  “Good luck,” said Pangborn over his shoulder.

  Strange would pay any price. Because his alternative was this.

  Nothing.

  CHAPTER

  11

  He let himself fall toward the rotunda, toward the robed Zealot who was waiting to annihilate him. With the agility ingrained in him by his martial-arts training at Kamar-Taj, Stephen Strange slammed into the woman, feetfirst. The impact knocked her off-balance, and she fell into the rotunda.

  The rotunda, with all its gateway windows.

  For the first time since this all started, Strange allowed himself a tiny smile. The Sanctum Sanctorum was full of surprises. Perhaps they would now work in Strange’s favor.

  The woman tumbled backward, through one of the gateway windows, shattering its glass outward in all directions. Strange evaded the broken glass as best he could, turning his gaze toward the gateway window.

  It was like watching someone fall into a painting of a vast desert, barren and burning hot. Strange regained his footing as he saw the woman continue to tumble down a sand dune, disoriented.

  Realizing what had happened to her, the Zealot struggled to make her way up the sandy slope, to no avail—her fingers and feet could find no purchase. She clawed at the grains of sand. Was she glaring at him? Strange wasn’t sure if the Zealot could see back through the gateway and into the rotunda, the way he could still see her.

  At that moment, he didn’t care. His eyes caught the control pad on the gateway wall, and he knew what he had to do. With the swipe of a hand, Strange spun the dial, and where once there had been an arid desert, there was now a lush green forest, consumed by a midsummer’s downpour. Rain sprayed through the shattered gateway window.

  One down, Strange said to himself. Two to—

  A bellow cut Strange’s thought short, a nightmarish sound full of rage and sinister intent. The strong Zealot hurled himself at Strange. Crouching, the doctor remembered what Mordo had taught him. The moment the Zealot came into contact with his body, Strange moved with the Zealot, using his opponent’s momentum against him. Strange flipped the Zealot away, directly into the rain forest behind him.

  Before the Zealot knew what was happening, Strange’s hand was already on the control dial. With a spin, the rain forest was gone, and in its place was a sunlit view of a vast, rocky, wide-open canyon.

  “Two down, one to go.”

  Strange straightened himself, whirling around in the opposite direction. Kaecilius was waiting for him.

  CHAPTER

  12

  How long had Strange been waiting? Had it been days, weeks, months… years since the accident? Time had become a meaningless concept for Strange.

  Only time will tell.

  How long had Strange been waiting for his miracle? To find the one thing that could restore hope and meaning to his life? To find the one thing that had restored hope and meaning to Jonathan Pangborn’s life? To find Kamar-Taj?

  A chill wind caught Strange in the face, and he did his best to pull the collar of his threadbare coat closer to his cheeks. It didn’t work. Since he had arrived in Nepal, he had experienced cold like he had never experienced before. This was a world away from New York City, and all that he was used to.

  Away from the hospital and the accident.

  Away from Christine.

  Strange continued to walk, as he had been doing for days (weeks?), as he arrived at the outskirts of the city of Kathmandu. It was bustling with activity. Cars, trucks, and people on bicycles and scooters weaved in and out of the foot traffic on the busy street.

  He looked around and noted the odd blend of ancient-looking buildings, which almost all looked like temples or shrines, and the brightly painted modern structures beside them. Men and women sat by the side of the road, barely noticing the bedraggled, dirty figure walking among them.

  Strange adjusted the backpack that hung on his weary shoulders. It felt heavy, even though there was very little in it. All of Strange’s worldly goods had been sold or traded away in an effort to find his way here. No, not here, to Kathmandu. To Kamar-Taj.

  The things that were his hands throbbed. They always throbbed. Since the accident, there had been nothing but pain. Nothing. Strange glanced down at the dirty, tattered bandages and frowned.

  Continuing on his path, Strange passed through a crowded alleyway. He had come this far, and yet, he still didn’t know where exactly he was headed. He had found the haystack. Now he had to find the needle.

  He would need a miracle to find his miracle.

  Looking around, Strange had to chuckle as he looked at the buildings, many of which bore signs in English.

  “‘Himalayan Healing. Find Peace. Find Yourself,’” Strange read aloud. “‘Enlightenment Spa and Massage.’ ‘Chakra Bar.’ ‘Holy Tours.’”

  He might as well have been in New York. All these businesses catered to tourists, to people who were seeking inner peace or a truth that eluded them. Strange shook his head. This was not the needle in a haystack he was looking for.

  Moving on, Strange came upon a huge temple, swarming with local villagers. He saw people kneeling in prayer, spinning wheels devoted to their religion. Without even thinking, Strange extended a bandaged extremity toward one of the prayer wheels and gave it an absentminded spin. Ahead of him, a line of tourists waited to receive blessings from an elderly monk.

  He let out a heavy sigh.

  Kamar-Taj? Excuse me, do you know where I can find Kamar-Taj?” Strange asked a local, who didn’t give the man with the scraggly beard a first look, let alone a second.

  If Strange hadn’t been so caught up in trying to find someone to direct him to Kamar-Taj, he might have noticed the presence of a hooded figure lurking in the shadows, his back to Strange. The man tilted his head slightly, as if listening to Strange. He wore a green robe.

  “Kamar-Taj?” said a child, who limped toward Strange. The child hobbled along on a lone crutch, regarding Strange with a mixture of curiosity and contempt.

  “Yes!” Strange shouted. Then, hopefully, excitedly, he added, “You speak English?”

  The child extended his hand toward Strange, palm up. “Kamar-Taj?”

  Strange shrugged. “I’m broke, kid. I spent my last dollar just getting here.”

  “Kamar-Taj?”

  Strange sighed. What he’d said wasn’t exactly true. He did have some money left—a few dollars, barely anything. But he had come this far; what else could he do? He reached into his wallet, fumbled with his useless, bandaged digits, and then handed a bill to the child.

  The child took the bill, shoved it in his pocket, and then pointed ahead with his finger. Strange looked in that direction, then back at the child.

  “A thousand rupees for you to point east? Thanks, beggar kid.”

  “You beggar, not me,” the child shot back. Strange smiled. So the kid could speak English, after all.

  “Yeah, okay,” Strange said, still smiling.

  The child laughed. “Patan Durbar Square.”

  “Patan Durbar Square?” Strange repeated.

  The child nodded as he hobbled away into the flood of people. Strange started in the direction of Patan Durbar Square.

  The man in the green robe followed.

  Patan Durbar Square was teeming with palaces and temples. Strange walked through the complex. He was here. One step closer to finding the needle.

  An unfamiliar feeling came over Strange, an eerie sensation like he was being watched. He looked around, but saw no one immediately near him, nothing to indicate danger.

  That’s when Strange noticed the man in the green robe staring at him. He tried to ignore the feeling, but eventually he looked back, only to find that the man in the green robe was no longer there. He shivered for a moment, then moved down a cobblestone alleyway. He knew he was close to finding Kamar-Taj, but it still seemed a world away.

  As he stepped along the stones, a small dog limped toward Strange. It trailed one of its legs on the ground, broken. Strange looked at the dog, then resumed walking.

  The dog started whining. Strange looked back at the dog.

  “I’ve got a friend who goes for your type,” he said, thinking of Christine. She had tried to help Strange, help him through this living nightmare. And he had pushed her away. Why? What was he afraid of?

  Walking back, Strange knelt down, and the dog approached him. His bandaged hands shaking, Strange gently examined the dog’s leg. Definitely broken. But it could be fixed. He turned to his backpack and clumsily removed some of its pieces. With effort, he managed to tie a makeshift splint to the dog’s leg. With time, the leg would heal.

  It will heal, Strange thought sadly. Only time will tell.

  As Strange picked the dog up and gently placed it on the stone street, the man in the green robe watched, tilting his head. Then he disappeared into the shadows.

  Your watch,” said a burly-looking man with a beard, stepping out of a doorway, blocking Strange’s way. He practically spat the words at Strange. Strange looked around, the New Yorker in him realizing that he was in a tough spot. In addition to the bearded man, he saw another large man and a skinny guy approaching him.

  “I don’t have any money,” Strange said reflexively. Then he realized he was wearing a watch. The watch that Christine had given him.

  Only time will tell…

  “No. Please. It’s all I have left,” Strange begged.

  The bearded man wasn’t taking no for an answer. “Your watch,” he repeated, then shoved his hand out, waiting. Strange scrunched up his face, ready for a fight… not that he would be able to put up much of one. He desperately tried to cover his watch with his bandaged extremities, which made the bearded man laugh.

  Ripping the backpack from his shoulder, the bearded man continued to laugh at Strange. The skinny guy slipped in, grabbing for the watch. Somehow, Strange evaded him, then ran—only to find the other large man in his way. They snared Strange in their arms. He struggled to free himself from their grasp, to hide the wrist with the watch.

  They punched. They kicked. Strange groaned.

  The skinny thief snatched the watch from Strange. But then the man in the green robe appeared.

  Strange wasn’t quite sure what happened next. It occurred so fast, it was basically a blur. Time seemed to speed up.

  He saw hands and feet and punches and kicks flowing from the man in the green hood. He saw the bearded man, the large man, and the skinny guy falling to the ground and hitting the pavement, and then picking themselves up and running away.

  Amazed, Strange fought to regain his senses as he saw the man in the green robe slowly remove his hood. The face that stared back at him was not kind. It had a particular menace to it, something that Strange couldn’t quite name. The face had scars, from what he could not guess.

  The man in the green robe stared at Strange, lying in the dirt. Strange picked himself up, breathing hard, and said, “My watch.”

  The man in the green robe moved his hands slowly, producing the watch—he had taken it back from the thieves. He looked at the watch, then threw it to Strange. Strange fumbled to catch the watch with his bandaged hands.

  The watch was broken. The glass had cracked. It wasn’t ticking.

  Only time will tell, Strange thought.

  At last, the man in the green robe spoke. “Sadly, I wasn’t in time to save your bracelet.”

  “It’s a watch,” Strange muttered.

 

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