Qinghe moved the collapsed workers onto clean straw mats in the infirmary. The station’s orderly had written their service grades beside their names. She crossed the grades out and sorted them by what their bodies were doing: who could hold a cup, who was feverish, who could breathe without coughing.
Lian sat with her back against the wall. She could speak, but her fingers shook around the water cup. An older operator kept asking whether the next shift would be delayed.
“It is delayed until you can stand safely,” Qinghe told him.
“Then the barrier lamps—”
“Someone else can answer for the lamps. I’m asking about you.”
Yan filled cups and passed them down the row. He did not tell the workers he could restore what the furnace had taken. He had seen his own art give him strength. That did not make their injuries his to undo.
The clerk brought in a ledger bound with red cord. “The service cards are accurate. The recorded loss is a few days of vitality per shift.”
Qinghe set her pulse notes beside the ledger. “Lian cannot lift a cup. Your page says she lost three days. Explain the difference.”
