I remembered.
I had been twenty-two and furious about a hunter who had delayed reporting a werewolf bite for four days because he was afraid of being expelled. Two people had nearly died. I had stood at that podium with charts and precedent and absolute conviction and I had said, in front of everyone, that sentiment had no place in security decisions.
I had used the word contamination.
I had meant it.
Grandfather watched me remember all of this. He was patient about it. He had always been patient in the particular way of people who already knew the outcome.
"Grandfather." I hated how my voice sounded. Stripped of everything. "I am still fighting it. Whatever this is, I am not gone. I can still think. I can still reason. I can still—"
"That is the problem," he said quietly.
I stopped
