It was uncomfortable, and I tugged my head free. “Indigo,” I said, and tried not to worry what it meant that it was as difficult to speak as it was to understand. “Are you okay?” Last I’d seen him, he’d been unconscious with massive blood loss and a huge gaping hole in his abdomen.

“He’s fine,” Tamara told me. “Ministers are hardy. And that sim-skin did its job.”

Indigo watched me over her shoulder. He did seem to be okay.

Tamara peeled my eyelids back again. “Ow,” I said.

“You’ve got something in your eye,” she said.

I stopped resisting her cold, bony fingers. “What? What is it?”

She released my skull. “I don’t know. I’m afraid to touch it. This isn’t exactly hygienic—you should be in a coma!”

“Sorry I’m not?”

“Don’t joke. Is anything else wrong, or is it just your vision?”

I had a headache, but it was surprisingly mild. It was secondary to my real concern. “It’s difficult to speak, and to understand what you’re saying. Like I’m trying to translate in my head instead of talking fluently.”

She frowned. “Say something in your native language, then. Say something in Kystrene.”

In Kystrene, I said, “I’m glad you two are okay.”

To my relief, the words came out easily, the syllables natural. It wasn’t speaking that I was struggling with, just speaking to them.

“Good.” Tamara seemed less relieved than her word choice would allow. “Your language processing abilities can’t be too damaged, if you can speak Kystrene without problem. Assuming that you were actually speaking Kystrene and not Kystrene-sounding word salad.”

I’d had no trouble speaking Kystrene, I wanted to reassure her, and then I realized that Indigo could understand Kystrene. I would’ve picked something different to say if I’d remembered that, something a little less honestly embarrassing.

But Indigo was only watching us with a cold, set expression, giving no sign that he had understood what I’d said. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure why I’d thought he could understand Kystrene anyway. I couldn’t remember whether he’d actually spoken it in front of me, or only spoken it to me in a dream.

The implication of Tamara’s words chose that moment to sink in to my conscious processing. “Wait, can’t be too damaged? Are you telling me I might be brain damaged?”

“You had a swarm of Dreamers in your skull,” Tamara told me. “If you’re not a little bit brain damaged, I’ll be shocked.”

“Oh, God.”

“I’m sure it’s only minor brain damage,” Tamara added hastily, apparently under the misconception that her words were comforting. “You’re conscious, coherent, and tracking really well—”

“We should keep going.” It was the first words I’d heard Indigo speak since before he’d passed out. The contrast between his shaken, desperate plea then and his icy calm now unsettled me.

It seemed to settle Tamara. “Right,” she said, and offered her hand to me. “The sooner we find what we’re looking for, the sooner we can get you a doctor.”