Chapter Seventeen

The Wounds You Can’t See

Monday, 5 February 2035

Lunar Colonist Group 2, Training Day 64

Lunar Colonist Group 3, Training Day 1

The tons of rock above her head dogged Barbara like a phantom weight on her shoulders. The more she tried to ignore them, and the obscene feeling that every breath and every step might bring debris down on her head, the more they pressed down on her. She deliberately took shallower, slower breaths to keep herself under control. How the others coped inside their own heads she would never know, but this was the perfect weeding-out experience for the Consortium to concoct for her.

Bastards.

She was sweaty and tired. The day wasn’t half over. She stank from the hour she’d spent in the pressure suit, first waiting to cycle through the big fake airlock and into the darkness of the mine, and then walking around the outside of the habitats in the dark, her lights and the lights on the other suits only penetrating a few meters into what was supposed to pass for lunar night. Squeezing between the rock wall of the mine and the outside skin of the mockup prefabricated modules only accentuated the claustrophobia she was experiencing from the mine itself.

Finally, they cycled through the tiny airlock—big enough for two people and a crate, but miniscule compared to the double doors on the front of the mine—and into the habitat itself. She wanted to smack the Cheshire cat grin off Van’s face as he stripped out of his suit. Not because he lorded it over her or anyone else that he was in his element—just on general principles, so he wouldn’t feel so full of himself. No one should get over leg surgery that fast; it didn’t seem human. She was proud of him, and a little awestruck when she was honest about it, but concerned that if he didn’t stop strutting he’d like as not hurt himself again.

As the new group cycled into the habitat, the noise and confusion grew almost exponentially: where to stow these suits, is that my bag or yours, I thought our cabin was this one instead of that one. The sixteen trainees still remaining in Group Two tried to go about their business, sliding gracefully aside to let small gaggles of newbies pass—even though a couple of those gaggles were bigger than what was left of their entire class. Aside from some cursory greetings, they left Group Three alone.

Group Two had originally been spread out through eight modules when there were forty of them, then gradually gathered into four as their numbers dwindled. The Consortium had made them move again the day before Van and Barbara’s group arrived, and they were now spread back out among thirty-eight new candidates. Barbara understood why they’d be a little upset, being forced out of their “homes.”

She and Van found their cabin, which was smaller than a walk-in closet. It was like a room that might be built under the eaves in an attic, but less homey; it would’ve been claustrophobic, but after being in the pressure suit in the dark, seemed roomy enough.

Van tossed his bag in the corner and said, “I’m going to make the rounds and see if the rest of this place looks as good as this does.” He tapped on the sliding door. “Same company built these as built the real ones, and so far they seem exactly the same. But getting them this far underground must’ve been a bear. Want to come with me?”

Barbara looked at their schedule; they had a briefing in an hour in the “big room,” two modules over. By her map it wasn’t very big at all.

“No, thanks,” she said. She pulled him into a hug. “You go ahead. Besides, I think I know the real reason you’re going out and about.”

He smiled at her, but narrowed his eyes a little as he wrapped his arms around her. “What?”

“What was it you said the other day about your adoring fans? I think you have some among our compatriots. I could see it in their eyes when we got to the airport.”

From the way he squeezed her a little tighter, she knew she was right and he didn’t want to admit it. “Well, they may want some advice, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” She stepped back out of his embrace and matched his powerful smile. “You go ahead and see to your fans. Make sure you give them good advice—but not too good.”

Van grabbed her hand and kissed it, and said, “Okay, sweetie. You take a siesta and I’ll be back in a little while to get you for the briefing.”

It didn’t take Barbara long to unpack the few personal items she’d brought. Van’s suggestion sounded good, but she decided she wanted some water before she tried a power nap.

In the kitchen, a tall black woman in a burgundy jumpsuit sat at the small table. They nodded at each other, but Barbara didn’t interrupt; the woman was finishing a plate of vegetables with some kind of savory touch to it. The spicy scent was a welcome relief to the underlying locker-room odor of the training facility. The woman’s face was so dark it seemed to drink in light, and her eyes shone with peculiar clarity; she was obviously a Group Two trainee and not one of the newcomers, but Barbara hadn’t studied the files on the preceding group. How do you know who to study, when over half of the group will wash out?

Barbara picked up a mug from the counter. Most of the dishware was communal property, and worked on the “clean it if you use it” principle.

“You probably want to wipe that out first,” said the woman behind her.

The mug looked clean enough.

“Just a habit we’ve gotten into,” the woman said. “Not everyone takes the same care washing up as you might like.”

Barbara said, “Thanks. Where are the towels?”

The woman held up a small baby blue towel, about the size of a washcloth. She raised her eyebrows. “Sell you this one for five hundred dollars.”

“What?” Barbara’s voice came out much too loud for the small space; she looked down at her feet for a second, surprised and a little embarrassed by her outburst.

The woman chuckled. “I’m kidding. Here.” She tossed it, and Barbara caught the rough synthetic.

“Thanks,” Barbara said, in a small voice. She turned to the sink and wiped out the mug, her face hot with an embarrassment that confused and annoyed her. She touched her ID ring to the sensor plate by the faucet—it would note the water usage on her account—filled her glass and sipped it, slowly.

Behind her, the woman said, “You act like you’ve been keeping a water account all your life.”

Her face a little cooler now, Barbara turned back and smiled. She tossed the cloth back and said, “Thanks. I expected something like it before we ever had the briefing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I read a lot of science fiction when I was little. I don’t remember if it was The Moon is a Harsh Mistress, but one of the Heinlein stories had a bit in it where a visitor to a lunar base was surprised that he had to buy an air chit when he first arrived.”

“I remember that.”

“Okay,” Barbara said, “great. I knew somebody here would get it—I figure we’re all some kind of nerds, or else we wouldn’t have joined up.”

“I just said the same thing the other day.”

“My dad always said great minds think alike. I’m Barbara Richards.” She stepped to the table and stuck out her hand.

The woman reached nearly halfway, then hesitated. She looked at Barbara’s hand, then her own, then at Barbara’s eyes, and her eyes were tinged with apprehension. Barbara wondered if she’d done something wrong, but gradually—tentatively—the woman completed the action. Her grip was strong.

“Stormie Pastorelli,” she said, and smiled. “Pleased to meet you. Your husband was on the setup crew, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“He was the one who did a half-gainer off the big truck, right?” Pastorelli smiled—did she mean it as a joke?

It’s not funny. Barbara withdrew, slowly, to hold the mug with both hands. “Yes, he was.”

Pastorelli shook her head as she got up.

Barbara turned the mug a little, afraid that if she held it still her knuckles would turn white. Her defense mode kicked in—what Van called her “adrenalestrogen.”

When she reached the sink, Pastorelli asked, “So, is he okay?”

Barbara exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “He will be,” she said. “He’s lost a few seconds off his 40-meter-dash time, but otherwise he’s fine.”

Pastorelli touched her own ID ring to the tap and drew half a cup of water. She took a sip, swished it through her teeth and swallowed, then dribbled a little on the plate she had practically licked clean. She wiped the plate with the cloth she had loaned Barbara, then put the plate in the drainer. She drank the last of her water, wiped out the mug and upended it in the drainer as well. She clipped the cloth to a D-ring hanging from her jumpsuit.

“I think, if it’d been my husband, I would’ve been torn between smacking him for being careless and babying him to get him better.”

Barbara’s hand shook with released tension. She drank down the mug of bland water. “Well, I considered more drastic options than just slapping him.”

Pastorelli laughed. “Yeah, I might be that irritated, too. But as long as Frank came back to me alive, I’d forgive him anything.”

Barbara forced a laugh; her tension hadn’t abated yet. She said, “Sometimes we love them too much, don’t we?”

“I think so.” Pastorelli looked at her watch. “Barbara, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a date with a computer. The AC didn’t tell us you and your group were coming in today, so we’ve been scrambling to re-balance the air system to accommodate you.”

“Sorry about that, Ms. Pastorelli. If I’d had your number, I would’ve called—”

“Don’t do that. Down here, or up there, it’s ‘Stormie.’ And it’s not your problem. The trainers look for any excuse to make you work, and they’ll use anything they can as a training input. And I mean anything. So stay bright-eyed and you’ll be fine.

“But, for the time being, try not to breathe too deeply, okay?”

Barbara agreed, and Stormie left. On her way back to her cabin, Barbara succumbed to the power of suggestion. She yawned.

* * *

Tuesday, 13 February 2035

Lunar Colonist Group 2, Training Day 72

Lunar Colonist Group 3, Training Day 9

Frank daydreamed of open skies.

He had just replaced the active element of one of the bio-filters—an organic matrix with the acronym MACEF that he and Stormie couldn’t agree how to pronounce. It stood for Monocellular Atmospheric Circulating Emulsion Filter; Stormie said the word “mace” and followed it with an “eff,” but Frank preferred to say “massif,” as in an underwater mountain. She complained that his accent made it sound like “massive,” but he always knew what he meant. The filter units’ single-celled inhabitants fed off of the longer-chain hydrocarbons that all the people, plants, and animals exhaled; units were in place at either end of each habitat, and had to be replenished from lab cultures at regular intervals. One of the first things Stormie did after the fire on training day three was insist that they would start two more cultures in different places in the real colony, in case the habitat with their lab lost pressure and the main cultures died.

Stiff and sore from weeks of sleeping on the training facility mattress, Frank stretched his back as he reached down for the slotted filter cover. He wrapped his hands around his ankles and pulled until his back popped. He gasped at sudden pain concentrated in his kidneys, as if he had fiery kidney stones the size of golf balls.

“You okay, old man?”

Frank did not recognize the voice, so it must be one of the new trainees. He bristled a little, but supposed he may have looked—and sounded—like an arthritic old man.

“Yes, quite all right,” Frank said. “It is nothing to be concerned about.” He stayed in that position, bent in half, for a little longer—he was unsure how much it would hurt to stand. He tried to remember the last time one of these minor agonies had assailed him: more than a month ago, surely. He looked in the direction of the man who had spoken to him, and was surprised to find the fellow kneeling by him.

“Need a hand?”

“No, really, it is all right. I will be fine. A spasm, it will pass.”

The newcomer tipped his head to the side as if he doubted Frank’s story; in fact his doubt was clear in the way he narrowed his eyes. Frank was not a good liar, but being suspected in this way was another surprise; most men he had met would accept that kind of casual lie without question. It was a social habit they got into from their youth, one that Frank had not learned until later and that still did not come naturally to him. Stormie would have read his dishonesty in his voice and his face, but Frank was not used to other people being able to read him.

The man nodded. “I’m Gabe Morera. Agronomy.”

Frank stood up … it took a long time, as if he were an old steam shovel trying to lift a heavy load. Morera stood, too, and Frank matched the man’s solid grip. “Frank Pastorelli. Air and water. I suspect we will work together a lot.”

Morera smiled. “I hope so. Maybe I should start by helping you with whatever you’re doing.”

“Thank you,” Frank said, and waved him off, “but the pain will pass quickly enough.”

From behind him, in the hatchway, a man called, “Gabe, you coming? It’s your turn in the Turtle sim.” Frank turned, and recognized Van Richards from the briefings he had given to the assembled trainees.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Morera said. “I was just checking on my life sciences partner, here.”

Richards gave Frank a noncommittal wave. It could have been a greeting or a dismissal, but Frank did not know.

Frank turned back to Morera. “Thank you, but please, do not let me detain you.”

Alone in the corridor again, Frank screwed the cover plate in place. The close quarters of colony life would engender both the stresses of interpersonal contact and countless opportunities to help one’s fellows. It could bring out the worst or the best in every person, and Frank hoped he would not only experience the best, but have the strength to demonstrate it.

He was grateful that he and Stormie had found ways to share their reserves of strength with one another. In times of need, each could count on the other to provide the extra measure to get them through any trial.

Like volunteering to take the picophage treatment again. As he considered the prospect of facing those flames, he bowed his head and thought of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, the young Hebrew boys who withstood the fiery furnace. He chuckled and shook his head at the incongruity—that they endured the flames because of their purity and righteousness, as opposed to Frank and Stormie being in the wrong place on the wrong night—and the fact that Stormie would never appreciate the reference.

Thank you, Lord, that we need not endure that again.

Stormie was much improved over the last few weeks since the shots and blood tests stopped. The headaches and nausea abated, she slept better, and she had returned to her normal routines. More than that: her libido had returned, to Frank’s great pleasure. And, he hoped, hers as well.

The cover plate secure, Frank turned on the MACEF fan. The small breeze cooled his face; the soft whir of the peristaltic pump was barely audible beneath the fan noise. He put away his tools, and went across the corridor to the kitchenette for a glass of water.

Scott Herbert and the Chu couple, Liquan and Marilyn, came through the hatch from the near junction. It was odd to see them together, since they were competing for the same slots in the colony. Liquan and Herbert’s wife, Angela Beacon, were both electrical engineers who wanted to work on the colony’s nuclear, solar, and thermal differential power plants.

Several of the remaining sixteen prospective colonists in Group Two were competing for the same jobs; Frank supposed the Group Three trainees were likely competing as well, but they did not concern him.

Herbert, for instance, was vying with Rex Stewart to be one of the foremen directing the tunnel operations that would expand the colony into the outer wall of Mercator Crater. What kind of pressure must they be under? Frank sipped his water, thankful that he and Stormie were not competing with any other company for the air-and-water contract. They just had to pass the training, not beat out other prospects.

“Hi, Frank,” Marilyn Chu said.

She was an independent contractor, too: principle owner of Lunar Analytics. Stormie had reviewed her services and rates weeks before they entered the training phase, and Marilyn and Stormie had managed to negotiate some volume discounts for LLE’s analytic work. Frank guessed that might give Chu Liquan some preference toward the position of power engineer … maybe Angela Beacon was a backup candidate, in case Liquan did not make it through the training. Or maybe … Frank set aside the automatic rundown of training area politics before it confused him further.

“Hello, Marilyn,” Frank said. “Hello, Liquan, and Scott.”

“Let’s ask Frank,” Herbert said to the others. One nodded and one shrugged, so Herbert turned to Frank.

“What do you think about turning one of these habitats into the main kitchen and recreation area for the whole lot of us? There’s so few of us left, it shouldn’t be a big problem.” Herbert looked older than his forty-eight years, and it seemed almost comical how he puffed himself up when he talked—as if he dared anyone to contradict him. “It’d be much more efficient to have one big kitchen and do everything there.”

Frank smiled down at the older gentleman. It was a harmless enough suggestion, until he considered how difficult it would be to refit the plumbing if this habitat suddenly needed more water and more waste removal. That, he decided, would be a big problem indeed—and one that he and Stormie would have to solve.

Frank nodded in a polite pause. It seemed as if Herbert and the others did not work as long hours as he and Stormie, and most of their hours were on simulators rather than doing real work, so they had the luxury of time to discuss inane ideas. Frank’s pectorals flexed and his shoulders rose at this notion that might make things easier for some people but would make more work for him and his wife.

“That is an … interesting idea,” Frank said, “and I am sorry I do not have idle time to stay and discuss it. I have several other MACEFs to service before the day is over.” He put the mug in the drainer beside the sink and gathered his tools. “I will only say that I suspect the project may be more intensive than you realize, and I think you ignore the redundancy of the habitats. If you put all the food preparation into one habitat, what if that one is damaged? Now, if one module has a problem, the ones around it are its lifeboats.”

Herbert made room for Frank to step into the corridor, but said, “Yeah, but how is that changed by rearranging the kitchens? You could still leave another one or two in place, for emergency use.”

“Perhaps,” Frank said.

“More than perhaps,” Herbert said. “I think as soon as Angela and I get up there, I’m going to suggest it. Chu here thinks it’s a good idea, don’t you, Chu?” He slapped Chu Liquan on the shoulder. Liquan shrugged, and Marilyn rolled her eyes.

Frank lifted his tool belt in a farewell gesture, grateful that he had an excuse to return to work.

* * *

Friday, 23 February 2035

Lunar Colonist Group 2, Training Day 82

Lunar Colonist Group 3, Training Day 19

Stormie sat in her cabin, alone, reading e-mail before going to the lab, when the ticklish “trouble is coming” feeling crept into her stomach with clawed feet. She had just finished eating a biscuit—wishing the whole time for honey and wondering if she could get the agronomist Frank had met to convince the AC to ship up some honeybees for pollination purposes—and the pieces filled her stomach like billets of soft, hot iron. A moment or two passed, then a yelp of pain came from the direction of the module’s kitchen.

She leaned out the doorway and looked down the narrow hall. “What’s the matter?” she called.

Rex Stewart, the tunnel engineer, stepped into the corridor. He held one hand awkwardly at shoulder height, supported by his other. “Got a sec?” he asked, then stepped back into the kitchen.

Stormie jogged down the corridor. Big drops of congealing blood stained the floor. Rex, paler than usual, sat at the small table putting pressure on his left hand. Fresh blood seeped from between his fingers.

Stormie petrified slowly, as if she were congealing like the blood on the floor. What did he expect her to do? She knew as much first aid as anybody, and certainly wasn’t afraid of catching anything from Rex—but the Santa Barbara episode left her hesitant, concerned about the smallest thing that might go wrong. She and Frank were down to single digits in terms of training days: she didn’t want to do anything to risk Consortium censure, or a fine, or worse.

“Do you want me to call someone?” she said.

“No, I’d rather you help me bandage this thing.”

Her feet refused to move.

“Come on, young lady,” Rex said. “Today would be better than tomorrow.”

“Maybe I really should call someone.”

“Oh, please. Get over here and help patch me up.” He laughed lightly, and smiled as if he were inviting her to afternoon tea. “I know some of the others still treat you like a pariah, but there’s nothing wrong with you that a little fresh air won’t cure.”

Stormie let her training take over. She pulled the first-aid kit off the wall and opened it on the table. Gloves on, she reached out to take his hand. “What did you do?”

She half expected—no, more than half expected—Rex to flinch, but instead he met her halfway and put his hand in hers.

“Reliving my younger days,” he said. “I used to play around with knives a lot—even before I went in the Navy. I got good at a few tricks, used to make an extra buck or two off Marines or new shipmates from time to time. That was almost twenty years ago.” He winced as he opened his left hand. The meaty part between his thumb and forefinger opened with it, and new blood flowed out. It looked warm.

It was hot as lava where it touched Stormie’s gloved hand.

She gasped, closed her eyes and swayed as she fought away a cascade of remembered pain. She caught herself on the edge of the table, took a deep breath, and said, “I don’t know if the suturing gel will work, the way that looks. You may need real stitches, maybe more than a few.”

“Okay, then, stitch me up.”

Stormie looked away from the blood into Rex’s blue eyes, and saw no guile. He trusted her as he would trust any of the other colonists, and she found that a precious gift. What he wanted her to do, though …

They’d all practiced stitching wounds—on a dead pig. Faced with the need to do it on a living person, Stormie wavered. She went for the easy out. “Let’s find someone who hasn’t practically been quarantined down here.”

Rex shook his increasingly pale head. “Call for backup, if you’re nervous, but let’s get started while I still have some blood in me.” He grabbed a bandage and held his hand together while Stormie called Central on the intercom. He searched around the tiny kitchen.

“What are you looking for?” she asked after Central acknowledged her call.

He raised his voice above the ensuing PA announcement. “I was wondering if there was any booze tucked away in one of these cabinets. A shot of courage, you might say.”

Stormie opened the sterile package of a curved needle paired with long surgical silk. She flipped the top off a can of antiseptic analgesic foam and applied a dose to Rex’s hand. He sighed as the fast-acting medicine numbed the wound.

“What are you talking about?” Stormie said. “I thought you and Maggie were all religious.” They were the ones who conducted services on Sunday, at least. Stormie didn’t know how many people attended, and had no intention of finding out.

“Well, Paul told Timothy to take some wine to help his stomach,” Rex said. “This wouldn’t be too different. Although that stuff you put on there works wonders. It tingles.”

“So, are you ready for this?”

“Are you?”

Stormie positioned herself in the light as best she could. She held Rex’s hand with the skin pushed together, trying not to bunch it up too much. In her other hand she gripped the little pliers—forceps, she told herself—the needle pinched in its jaws. She touched the needle to Rex’s hand—and backed away. White noise in her ears drowned out Rex’s encouragement; his lips moved, but she wasn’t sure what he said. She took a deep breath.

The needle tip pressed, dimpled, then punctured the skin; she pushed against the soft resistance under the skin, and harder until the tip emerged from the far side of the wound. It was farther than she’d intended it to go, but she let it be. Breath hissed, and she wasn’t sure if it was her sigh of relief or him hissing in discomfort. She gripped the protruding end of the needle and pulled it through. The silk dragged through the skin like dental floss around a dirty tooth.

“Need any help?” Yvette Fiester asked.

“Nah,” Rex said. “Stormie’s doing fine.”

“Like hell I am,” she said as she tied the knot. It was ugly, but it would hold. “Put on some gloves and take over.”

Yvette complied, as Stormie trusted she would: as a licensed radiologist, she’d done her share of stitching during her intern days and had gone through full EMT training before signing on with the program. She was another independent contractor, slated to perform nondestructive x-ray inspections and burn PROMs for different equipment applications. By necessity and by design, Yvette would multi-task as the closest thing the early colony would get to a general practitioner.

Stormie backed away and watched Yvette work. Rex grabbed Stormie’s hand and squeezed it, hard. He smiled when she looked at him. She repaid in kind.

“Thanks,” he said. “You did good.”

“Thank you,” Stormie said. It was all she could say, and it didn’t say all she wanted. She glanced away and noticed that Harmony Adamson and Onata Bonaccio had crowded in the room to watch.

“Stay here and talk to me while she does her work,” Rex said. “Take my mind off of it.”

“That’s a good idea,” Yvette said, “as long as she swabs away some of this blood so I can see what I’m doing.” Stormie did as asked, content to watch the smooth speed with which Yvette worked. Her stitches were smaller, tighter, and closer together than Stormie could ever have achieved.

“Okay,” Stormie said. “What do you want to talk about?”

Rex sighed. “I don’t know. The Consorts haven’t come in to take your blood lately—I guess it’s been a month or more. Did they finally admit you and Frank weren’t contagious?”

The way he looked at her, he might know more than he was telling. Whatever he knew, Stormie appreciated his voice of support, especially since Onata had been one of Stormie’s most vocal detractors when the Consortium thought she was infected. Stormie answered with a question that she hoped didn’t sound too challenging. “Is that why you felt safe asking me to help you?”

Rex waved with his good hand. “Ah, no. Maggie and I knew you were okay. We figured they’d relent eventually.”

“Thanks, Rex.”

“Can’t say as we would’ve done anything differently, from what we’ve heard. Might not’ve been the first people to help, but we’ve always tried to do what we could when we could. I remember we were driving to our honeymoon, we were heading down to Arkansas to the Ozarks, had barely made it past Nebraska City … we were driving in the back woods at night, and came over a hill and saw a red-orange glow at the curve coming up. When we got there, people were running around, yelling, and a big woman came up to our car and said, ‘You’ve got to help ’em, they’re burning up!’ There was a car off to the right that had hit a fence post but looked okay, but on the other side was a truck down in the field, burning, and a Jeep closer in that was burning, too.

“There was a fellow just this side of the Jeep, on the ground, and I got to him and dragged him across the road. It was hot enough that just getting to him I singed the hair off the backs of my hands, but I didn’t notice until later. I couldn’t get near enough to the Jeep to help the person in it, on account of the heat. And I kept hearing pops every once in a while, but it took me a little while to figure out what they were.”

“What were they?” Stormie asked.

“Fellows in the truck had been hunting, and their ammunition was cooking off in the fire.” Rex looked down at his hand. Yvette had turned it and was working on the palm. He seemed calm and his color was better, and he nodded a little as if he had just come to a conclusion. He looked at Stormie and winked; she looked down and wiped away the last trickle of blood as Yvette tied off one more stitch.

“Thing I remember most about that night,” Rex said, “is a little boy off to the side of the road, watching the truck burning in the field. He must’ve been about ten or eleven. Every time one of those bullets would pop off, he’d jump a little. I thought maybe he was a farmboy, just stopped by to see what happened, but he wasn’t.

“Found out that it was his uncle’s truck, and he’d been riding in the bed and got thrown out when the accident happened. He didn’t have a scratch on him that I could see, but the look in his eyes …” His voice faded and he shook his head. He made a show of studying the new stitches in his hand and said, “Sometimes it’s the wounds you can’t see that hurt the most. And sometimes the wounds you can see matter the least.”

Yvette applied more antiseptic foam and started wrapping Rex’s hand in a bandage. She said, “Stormie, pull off some tape so we can cover this mess, then let’s get this room cleaned up. Rex, what we’ve done here is fine for a field dressing, but I think a good surgeon is going to have to work on your hand.”

Rex narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, you’re probably right. Wonder if I can get a waiver on the last few days down here.”

“Not likely,” Onata said from her onlooker post by the doorway.

Yvette said, “Onata, how about you and Harmony give us some room so we can get this cleaned up?”

Stormie tore off a strip of adhesive tape; the rip echoed in the small chamber. She handed the strip to Yvette, but looked at Onata. “Better yet,” Stormie said, “why not grab a mop and help clean up?”

Onata laughed—a sharp, short, attacking laugh. “I don’t think so, Stormie,” she said. She looked around where the spatters, drops, and outright puddles were now smeared across the table, floor, and countertop. “Some of that might be your blood. It’s not worth the risk.”

Heat rose from Stormie’s belly, through her chest and up her neck like magma building under a volcano, but it wasn’t painful memory-heat: it was embarrassment mixed with slow-boiling anger. She took a step toward Onata.

Yvette grabbed Stormie’s hand, and their gloves stuck together like magnets. An instant later, Harmony grabbed her arm.

“Let it go, Stormie,” said Rex. “It’s over.”

Is it? Stormie bit back on the words, and they tasted like old collard greens that had been boiled far too long.

Onata strode out of the little kitchen. Stormie was vaguely aware of other people out in the corridor, but she registered only Rex, sitting at the little table holding his damaged hand at an angle in front of him, and the two women holding on to her.

It wasn’t over, even though these few had reached out to her. Maybe they thought she was okay, like Rex said, but maybe they were afraid and just masking it.