Sable Wythe’s mother crossed the river boundary with one hand on her breathing unit and the other gripping the rail.
Vespera Morcant waited on the neutral platform.
The river station had been built for winter evacuations. Its concrete roof covered two vehicle lanes, a clinic checkpoint, and a narrow public waiting area. Neutral pack emblems hung above the inspection booths.
No Arkwright banner appeared.
Vespera had insisted on that.
The first Roarke transport stopped beneath the clinic sign. Sable moved before the engine cut off.
Her mother descended slowly. The clear tube beneath her nose had fogged near one cheek. Someone had corrected the buttons on her cardigan.
“You look terrible,” Sable said.
“So do you.”
“You missed two doses.”
“One.”
“The clinic record says two.”
“The c
