Lisle woke, wondering if she was still dreaming.  For the first time in who knows how long, she was warm.  Even the regular cells in the Stalag were uncomfortably cold to her Western blood.  Something soft was piled over and around her.  Something vaguely appetizing teased at her nose.  Someone was stroking her hair.  Surely it couldn't be real.<br/><br/>It was the soreness that convinced her that it was.  Her legs ached like the aftermath of a charlie horse, as well as a deeper ache between them, like the aftermath of a night of passion.  Her hands ached too, but she couldn't think of anything to compare that to - it was a completely unfamiliar sensation.<br/><br/>Her eyes focused blearily on what was around her - a blanket, the edge of a cushion, someone's - knee?  She reached up to push away the blanket - and missed.  Puzzlement creased her face, and she tried again, swiping the blanket down a bit more forcefully as she pushed herself up on one elbow.<br/><br/>"What - where -?"  She looked around wildly as the events of the previous day came crashing into her awareness.  She brought her hand - her paw - up into full view and stared at it in horror, moving the stubs of fingers as if she were wiggling the vanished digits.<br/><br/>"No - it can't be.   My hand!"  Drugged acceptance had become sober denial, even as the suggestion that she was somewhere safe stirred sluggishly in her subconscious.<br/><br/>That was when her eyes lifted from her hand to the person kneeling in front of her.  They traced over the legs, skipped over the beverage, and lingered on the strained panties before rising the rest of the way to the face that peered down at her.<br/><br/>"Y-you're that doctor," she said.  "The one who did this."