The nurse reached for the alarm.
I pushed myself out of bed.
Pain tore through my ribs. The room tilted, and I caught the table before the floor reached me.
"Where is Laila?"
The nurse stared.
"My sister. Where is she?"
"I'll find the doctor."
She hurried out.
I tried to follow.
"Escaping?"
The healer stood in the doorway, her dark hair falling in lush waves nearly to her waist.
"I'm looking for my sister."
"You've made it three feet."
"Progress."
I pushed away from the table.
My knees failed.
She caught me before I hit the floor, one arm firm around my back.
"I don't need help."
"Clearly. I'm interrupting an excellent collapse."
Her hair brushed my shoulder as she guided me back to bed.
"Where is Laila?"
"Upstairs."
"Is she hurt?"
"No."
"Have you seen her?"
"Yes."
"Is she frightened?"
"She's worried about you."
I searched her face for any sign that she was hiding something.
She reached into her pocket and placed a narrow blue ribbon in my hand.
The edges were frayed. One end was stained with ink.
I knew it immediately.
I had tied it in Laila's hair on her first day at the academy. She had complained that I pulled it too tight, then refused to replace it for the next six years.
My fingers closed around it.
"She said you wouldn't believe anyone without proof," the healer said.
A laugh caught painfully beneath my ribs.
"That sounds like her."
"She also said that if you tear your stitches trying to reach her, she'll finish the job herself."
That sounded even more like her.
"Can I see her?"
"When you can reach the door without assistance from the furniture."
Only then did I look properly at the woman standing before me.
Her hair framed a face made severe by exhaustion. She had calm, intelligent eyes and a faint scar near her jaw.
The monitor accelerated.
"Pain?" she asked.
"Not exactly."
She checked the screen.
Completely unmoved.
"Sit still, Firefox."
"Why Firefox?"
She pushed my long reddish hair away from my eyes.
"I once had a red-headed finch who was convinced he was a fox."
"And I remind you of a bird?"
"The resemblance is unfortunate."
Then she smiled.
It was quick and startling—the kind of smile that made me wonder what the world had done to make it so rare.
Then it disappeared.
I was gone.
She returned to my dressing as though nothing had happened.
I read the name embroidered above her pocket.
Dr. Sera Firoz.
Two Seerati soldiers entered.
"We're here for the Manaran," one said.
Dr. Firoz didn't turn. "No."
The younger soldier moved toward me.
The older man caught his arm.
"Not here," he warned quietly.
"He's an enemy combatant."
"He's my patient."
"We need to question him."
"When he's medically cleared."
"When will that be?"
"Not today."
The younger soldier looked ready to argue.
Dr. Firoz looked at him.
He reconsidered.
The older man nodded. "Dr. Firoz."
They left.
I watched her adjust my sling.
"They listen to you."
"They listen to hospital policy."
"The younger one looked terrified."
"He has good instincts."
"Am I supposed to be afraid of you?"
"Only if you try standing again."
"This hospital protects Manarans?"
"This hospital protects patients."
"Even enemy soldiers?"
"Especially enemy soldiers. They're the reason such rules exist."
She tightened the sling and stepped away.
"Dr. Firoz."
She looked back.
"Thank you—for Laila."
"You're welcome."
"Tell her I'll come upstairs soon."
"I'll tell her you remain tragically optimistic."
She left without another smile.
I ran my thumb over the frayed ribbon.
Laila was alive.
For the moment, that was enough.
It should have been enough.
But when I closed my eyes, it was Dr. Firoz's smile I saw.