For too many seconds I was sure I was back in prison. Someone touched my face. “No, Ganwe, leave me—” “Not Ganwe. You’re not in prison.” It’s me, Jodi. Kir. I blinked against the soft light—something blocked it. Someone’s head. “I f-feel l-like shit.” I moved my arm and something dragged against it before Kir caught my wrist. “Careful. That’s the drip. You warm enough?” “No. F-freezing.” “Can fix that.” He touched my face, stroking my forehead gently. I pushed up against the touch, wanting more. It helped. I felt a little less crappy than I’d expected, and I wasn’t vomiting. I couldn’t stop shivering, but I was warmer than I would have been back in the cell, or in the storeroom. It felt more like a not too severe dose of flu than anything else, though if I’d had to get up and do anything physical like walk, I’d have been out of luck. The door open and closed, then I heard the soft thud of footfalls across the rug. “And how’s our boy doing?
