Renn waited until Yan finished carrying water before he spoke.
The soldier stood by the line of covered barrels, hands clasped behind his back. He had been quiet through the camp meeting and had not signed Han’s travel list. Now he looked at Yan’s bandaged forearm, then at the water jars Yan had lifted without asking for help.
“You can do more than the rest of us,” Renn said.
Yan set the last jar down. “Sometimes.”
“More than sometimes. You can walk into a furnace room, take a hit that would kill a squad, and keep going. Then the rest of us get told to take shifts and mind our hands.”
Yan wiped his palm on his trousers. “The hit still hurt.”
“But it didn’t stop you.” Renn’s voice stayed level. “If the commander knows you can save a place, what stops her from asking you to spend yourself every time? What stops the rest of us from being treated as replaceable because you’re there?”
There was no clean answer. Han had already ordered him through the furnace gate. He had chosen to hold the wheel. Both things were true. “You’re right to ask.”
