Nights passed before the woman in the quarantine room finally opened her eyes. She claimed not to remember what had happened, her voice trembling, her gaze empty.
The words only made Iyisha more suspicious. Wounds too shallow, blood too much, memory too convenient. Nothing added up.
Since then, Malcolm had turned into a machine beside her. He spoke only when necessary, his answers clipped to the bone. No warmth, no glance that lingered. And wherever she turned, Therese seemed to hover at his side, her laughter soft, her hand finding reasons to touch his arm. Each time Iyisha saw it, frustration knotted deeper inside her.
At least the medics were different. Teaching them gave her something solid to hold onto, something that didn't twist with doubt. She sighed as she walked across the dim paths toward the greenhouse.
