He slept for fourteen hours.
Not a decision — his body made it for him, the accumulated weight of eleven days of road and three cities and a Pale Warden absorption and a stranded Traveler and sixty levels of Class evolution simply presenting the bill and declining to accept argument.
He woke at nine in the morning to the sound of the clinic's ground floor operating.
Not quietly.
Voices. Movement. The particular sound of a building being used for its intended purpose — the specific acoustic quality of people waiting to be seen and people being seen and the organized chaos of a functioning medical practice that had been closed for twelve years and was making up for lost time.
He lay on the cot in the upper room for a moment and listened to it.
Then he got up.
The ground floor had transformed.
