“I thought it was just t-t-tunnel fever?”

“Better safe than sorry,” Kiva warned, before stepping out the door, the young man following in her footsteps.

And . . . Naari, too.

Kiva looked at the guard quickly, then away again, unsettled by her continued company. It was normal for guards to be stationed at each of the work buildings—rarer for the infirmary, at least before the surge in riots of late—but they never tailed inmates out in the open spaces of the prison. There was no need. Zalindov had around-the-clock surveillance from multiple watchtowers and patrolling guards, both human and canine, the latter of whom were trained to tear flesh from bones at a single whistle.

Naari’s company was unnerving, prompting Kiva to wonder if the guard suspected the young man was more dangerous than he seemed. It was all the more reason for Kiva to hurry up and get his orientation over with.

Deliberating quickly, she turned left and started toward the next building along, the gravel underfoot crunching loudly in the quiet early-evening air. The other prisoners would be heading back to their cell blocks soon, if they weren’t already there. But for now, the grounds were silent. Almost peaceful.

“What’s your name?”

Kiva looked up sharply, finding the young man walking calmly beside her and peering at her in question. Despite his bruised and battered body, and despite his new, unfamiliar surroundings, he seemed completely, unfathomably, at ease.

She remembered her first day at Zalindov, the moment she’d stepped out of the infirmary cradling her bandaged hand, aware that her family, her freedom, and her future had been taken away from her in one fell swoop. She hadn’t asked anyone for their name. That had been the last thing on her mind.

“I’m the prison healer,” Kiva answered.

“That’s not your name.” He waited a beat, then offered, “I’m Jaren.”

“You’re not,” she returned, looking away from him. “You’re D24L103.”

Let him make of that what he will, the reminder of how—and why—she’d been close enough to memorize his identification band. He had to feel it, had to know what lay throbbing beneath the wrappings on his hand. Kiva had heard about Zalindov’s own personal form of branding long before her arrival, and she’d only been seven. There was no way this young man—Jaren—wouldn’t have known about the Z prior to being dumped inside his prison wagon. It was an inevitability for all those sentenced to Zalindov.

She waited for the repulsion and anger, both of which usually came while she was carving the symbol. But he’d been unconscious, so now was his time. She didn’t brace herself. There was nothing he could say that she hadn’t heard before.