An idea's slowly been forming in my head during my time on bedrest. I'll talk to her, ask her to come clean, yes, but if she won't, I know I can make her. Milla's a good liar. She's slippery. And I'm fast questioning how much of our partnership is rooted in manipulation. I think I've gotten a handle on reading her, and after today, I'll know. The soles of my feet are still tender, but the cuts there weren't as bad, and they've healed faster. I can walk around on my own again without too much pain. I celebrate that by moving around as much as possible, looking at every corner Allen probed or explored, while Milla was with me. “How's Milla?” Allen asks, nonchalantly, as we peer in the top of a cistern to see if there's any large openings that go through the wall behind it. “You've seen her, too. Why do you have to ask?” He shrugs. “She's just been on edge lately.
