They let him take her home at dawn, after the night had worn the warded lamps thin and the med clerks had run out of ways to keep him in a chair. "Observation's good," the elder one said, voice smoked with fatigue. "Her numbers like you again. Keep her quiet. No stairs if you can avoid them. Cold to the shoulder. Wake her every couple of hours and make sure her words know how to stand up."
"Copy," Inigo said, because agreeing gets doors opened.
He wheeled her on the gurney as far as the infirmary threshold, then swapped to the stretcher he trusted. The JLTV idled in the yard, a steady diesel heart against a city that still didn't know whether to wake or keep pretending to sleep. He eased Lyra into the back, tucked the thermal up to her jaw, checked the monitor, checked the sling, checked the wrap, checked himself.
"Home," he told her. "Our kind. No clerks. No bells."
