Screens surround the bed, all of them showing different parts of me—my steady heartbeat, my blood pressure, my brain activity. An IV stands sentry beside me, pumping nutrition and fluids into my veins. I can’t sit up. I’m too weak. What happened?

I was shot.

My hand rises, hovering over my chest. I have bandages. I remember the bloom of pain, shooting straight through me, more painful than being hit by dream lightning.

I’m alive, though. That’s something.

With difficulty, I manage to sit up. Moving triggers an alarm and a nurse droid comes in, topping up my medicine before going away.

I curse the droid as my eyes grow heavy again. I sleep.

*   *   *

The next time I wake up, I’m not alone.

Nazarin sleeps in the chair next to me, scrunched up awkwardly. His name is Aziz, but it’s hard to break the habit. I feel much better this time. More awake, more alive.

There’s a bunch of flowers on the nightstand next to my bed. Little white roses. I take one out of the vase and flick the stem at him. The water droplets splash him and he jolts awake.

“Hi,” I say, managing a weak smile.

“Hey,” he answers. His bruises are almost gone.

I try to sit up. Nazarin helps me and then passes me a cup of water, and I sip gratefully.

“Tila?” I ask.

“She’s been given a full pardon. It’s all still out of the press. You’re not being held for any crimes committed while undercover.”

“She’ll be free?” My voice quavers.

“Yes. She’ll be transferred and released tomorrow. You did it. You freed her.”

I laugh, though it sounds hollow and weak. “I did it.” My sister is safe. Safe. I fall back against the pillow. It hurts. “What’s my prognosis?”

“The doctor will fill you in on the jargon and everything, but I can tell you what I know. You were shot in the chest. It didn’t penetrate the Kalar suit much, but the impact of the bullet against your metal sternum messed with your heart and broke the skin. They had to repair and restart it. You flatlined. You’ll have another scar, unless you want to erase it.”

He snuck it in there, among the other stuff. You flatlined. I died. My fingertips graze the bandages. “Can I unwrap it?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Probably not yet.”

“When can I go home?” I want to go home and sleep. I want it to be tomorrow, when my sister is free.

“Soon, I expect. Let me call for the doctor.”

“Wait. One thing first.”

“What?”

“Tell them to send down the waxworker. Get them to give me back my face.”

*   *   *