On the morning of Day Thirteen, I was already in the triage ward when Sona said the woman from Ashfen was awake enough to speak.
I hadn't planned to be there that early. I'd told myself I was reviewing the overnight security logs, which were also in the ward's administrative alcove, which was technically true and not the whole explanation.
Her name was Bren. She was forty-two, a scout, three years with Ashfen's outer perimeter team. She had silver burns up both forearms from the holding facility's restraints and the particular thinness of someone who has been underfed without being starved — kept functional, not comfortable. The burns were healing. Sona's expression when she updated me on the recovery rate suggested the healing was ahead of schedule, which was its own piece of data about
