At the doors to the Mess, I couldn’t help a glance up at the duty board. There was one name less on the list of confirmed dead. I asked the ladies at the barter shelves what was up.

The younger one dropped her head to hide a smile.

The older woman shrugged. “He wasn’t dead after all.”

“What?”

“Just out cold. Not a scratch on him. Might have . . . well, just fainted.”

Now I was smiling, too. The older woman frowned. “It’s hardly funny!”

The younger one pressed both palms to her cheeks. “But it’s so embarrassing.”

“Better than dead,” I said. But that lad would be a long time living it down.

The few Joes awake had gathered in the Mess, sharing rumor, speculation, and the comfort of company. No sign of Rubio or Jenn, but Gracie had commandeered a corner table where she could still see the doors. And beside her . . . Rivera! I waved and headed over.

The poor girl looked dazed, barely upright. I slid onto the stool opposite. “Di! They let you out! How do you . . . ?”

“Threw her out’s more like it,” Gracie snapped.

Rivera’s gaze was wide-angled. One cheek was purpled with bruise and her dark hair looked sticky, like no one had thought to wash the blood off. Her T-shirt was oversized and shapeless, but at least she wasn’t wearing what she got sliced up in.

“They needed the cot,” she murmured. “Many worse off.”

I reached to touch her shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be in your bunk?”

“How’s she gonna make a three-tier climb, shape she’s in?” Gracie flung her long braid around like a whip. “And she needs to eat.”

“Get someone to switch till she’s better.”

“And who’d that be?”

“I don’t know. It’s your tier!” I wished she’d back off and let me talk to Rivera. “You in much pain?”

A flicker of a smile. “They gave me some stuff.”

“Did it help?” I’d always thought Rivera was beautiful, despite the shadow lurking in her eyes. Now she was limp and frail, maybe still in shock.

“It made me dream.”

“Pleasant dreams, I hope.”

“No.” She looked up. “About all the people I worked with . . . before. About my . . .”

Grace slid a tea mug between Rivera’s bandaged hands. “Don’t, Di—no point stirring all that up again.”

“About my baby,” Rivera finished doggedly.

“Don’t,” Grace insisted. “It’ll just make you feel worse.”

“Let her. If she wants.” I’d never heard Rivera’s story. “Some things need to be talked about.”

Grace was puffing up like a mother hen. “What’re you, her shrink now?”

“No, it’s okay.” Rivera pressed the mug between swathed palms and took a sip. “The one I lost. A little girl. They couldn’t save her.”

I waited for tears, but she was calm, almost a blank. “Who couldn’t?”