Vost’s left hand lay on a padded board beside the clinic bed.
The fingers were warm. He could move two of them a little when the dresser asked. His forearm remained wrapped and supported, and the surgeon had warned him that its useful recovery would take time and could not yet be promised in full.
He listened to that answer without asking anyone to improve it by enthusiasm.
Then he looked at Iven.
“Who has the upper board?”
“Mera. The keeper with the red scarf.”
“She knows the work.”
“Yes.”
