The infirmary ceiling at Zenith had two hundred and eleven tiles.
I counted them twice, because Lena had confiscated my ability to leave and there was very little else available.
"You're counting."
"I'm resting."
"You're counting out loud."
"That's a separate problem."
Lena did not look up from whatever she was writing, which was now on its fourth page and showed no signs of slowing.
"Three ribs," she said. "Not four. The fourth one is bruised and pretending."
"That's what I said."
"You said possibly four."
"I was being generous to the fourth one."
She made a note.
I had been in the infirmary for nine hours.
Most of that had involved lying still, which under normal circumstances I consider an excellent use of time, and which had become insufferable within about forty minutes because I could not stop thinking.
Gold.
Not green.
Green is what healing looks like.
