Ify gets to the ward floor and stands by the entrance. As much as she tries to will her body forward, it won’t move. So Paige and Amy are two shivering specks in the distance. A primal fear chills Ify. She feels as though her bones are vibrating inside her. She grits her teeth against it and closes her hands in fists and waits for tears, but they never come. She’s too scared even to cry.

In all the time she’s known Amy and Paige, she has never seen them so helpless. Even when they had no idea how to care for Ify or how to make her feel at home or how to help her build her future, they’d moved with confidence. They’d blundered out of love for her. And with every fumbling move, Ify had known that they did this or that thing, made this or that mistake, committed this or that error, all out of love for her. They knew, or felt they knew, that they were doing right by her. And whether or not things turned out the way they’d wanted, their love would carry them through. Ify stands now as living testament to their efforts. They had indeed made her the woman who stands today on the precipice of being a licensed Colony doctor, already assistant director of her own ward.

And now they cling, helpless, to a hospital bed. Helpless.

It’s not my fault, Ify tells herself.

She repeats the mantra as she returns to her apartment and packs for her trip. She repeats it during the rail ride to the shuttle transit station. Even as droids load her luggage and Grace’s and usher the two of them to the plush cabins afforded to Colony officials, she says it over and over again.

She repeats it as the shuttle hurtles through the ejection column and, once it settles into its flight pattern toward Earthland, she continues to say it. She’s forgotten the young Cantonese woman sitting across from her, dutifully organizing her notes and studying her materials and preparing her research plan. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault.

By the time the shuttle touches down in Abuja and the doors open to Nnamdi Azikiwe International Shuttle Station and she has gathered her things and, blanketed by light, proceeded through the busy but efficiently run terminals to the exit where her and Grace’s minders wait for her to bring Ify and Grace to Ify’s apartment, she has said it a thousand times.

And each and every time, it has felt like a lie.

As the jeep flies through the well-ordered streets of Abuja, a message beeps through Ify’s Whistle. A lone envelope icon. Sender: Céline Hayatou.