Spending the day sleeping wouldn't've been his choice--not that the nurses had woken him up to ask him--but Indy had to admit he'd needed it. When he got up to check the bulletin board, he found he could walk at a normal pace with tolerable pain. His chest was still swathed in bandages about an inch thick (he didn't even want to know what it looked like under there), and it was still the epicenter of the agony that shot through his whole body when he moved wrong, but they'd wrapped his left hand in a way that let the fingers move--slightly--for the first time in days.

It was good enough. Now, as the intercom message wrapped up (good old Landel) and Indy started changing into his adventuring clothes, he felt readier than ever to get back down to the basement. He knew the others were right to be wary, but the longer he thought about it, the more confident he felt that it'd been the right call. Most of the six of them were in pretty good condition, and now Landel was back, more of a known quantity than Aguilar's army. Hard to know yet how good or bad that was for them, but they might as well push on. Hopefully the head doctor wouldn't decide to do anything too creative on his first night back.

It took a minute or two longer than usual to change, but soon enough Indy was donning his hat and selecting his gear: whip, machete, flashlight (he could cup the fingers of his left hand enough to balance it, gingerly), journal and pen. He hurried out as quickly as he could move. If they were going to do this, might as well use all the time they could.

[to here]