Iven woke before the knock.
The room was dark except for the thin line under the door. He lay still long enough to hear the city beneath him: the deep working rhythm of the suppressed body, a cart wheel in the upper lane, the distant call of a crossing crew already taking the first households out.
He had slept. Properly, from ten until half past four, with no boots passing through his dreams because he had left them beside the bed.
The gauge settled at one hundred and fifty.
He washed, ate the bread and egg waiting outside his door and put on his brown coat. The bruise at his back announced itself when he bent to lace his boots, then ceased to matter. He could turn, reach and move as he needed.
Vale’s key stayed on the table.
At the staff approach, lamps burned in the morning mist. People came up from the ground in small working groups, their packs lighter than those moving the other way. Dessa stood beside Jora, waiting for the last member of the clinical crew. Kesh was with them, her knife sheathed and her grey scarf wet at the edges.
“You’ve left the field?” Iven asked her.
