You sit on your hands for a count of sixty because Yuna asks you to, and because TIDE’s recovery bar is a tiny honest rectangle.

The ringing eases. The fog on the screen thins to weather you can name: terrace, known chimney, habitat skids. The cathedral ping did not find Paz. It found your impatience, in stereo.

Yuna pours you ginger that is mostly manners. “Ears work again. Grid at polite power. You already spent the shout. Don’t spend the person.”

Vargas in the door: “We still have a job. The job is smaller than your first idea. Smaller is allowed.”

You pick up the grease pencil. The plastic sheet is still there. Squares are still promises.

Turn to 9.