His voice. Out loud. Working.
Silence from the other side for one second.
Then her voice — changed. The different quality of someone who had heard something they weren't expecting, the processing pause of it — but too brief, and then Raven's voice, low, covering something—
And then her voice again, not to Vikram, not out through the door, directed inward, continuing:
"'Stop— your hand is— Raven—'"
He hit the door with his shoulder.
The shoulder that had been in surgery.
The white, total, comprehensive pain of that contact went from his shoulder to his spine to his skull in a straight, honest line.
He stepped back.
He stood there with his right hand on his left shoulder and his teeth locked against the sound he was going to make.
He stared at the door.
The wood-grain door that was not wood.
He understood.
