The ward door shoved into younger Ty's shoulder before he could answer.
Present Ty felt the edge of it through the callback. The pressure cut across a hospital gown too thin for a ward that locked from the outside. His right hand tightened around the sickle, and the missing finger left the grip crooked enough to keep him thinking about his hand instead of the name.
For once, the crooked part helped. The door had weight. Weight was easier to argue with than ownership.
Chair 7B sat jammed between door and frame. Its bad wheel had turned inward, grinding a black half-circle into the tile. Younger Ty stayed frozen with his mouth partly open. Behind the chair, the patient called again for Bone Half and asked if anyone was still there.
Zunoder's reflection settled in the fire plate on the door. He watched Ty instead of the patient, as if the trapped chair was only a prop the room had dragged out for instruction.
