Raymond Winslow was forty-six years old, and he was, by every account, a dying man.

He had built a considerable fortune over his life, a network of regional transport fleets that had made him wealthy enough that the people around him lowered their voices in his presence.

And for nearly two months he had lain in that bed, unable to speak, unable to move, his body gone still and unresponsive while his mind, everyone assumed, had dimmed along with it.

The doctors had given their verdict.