She glanced at the wound on Elly’s arm. Nightmares, she thought, just like Holt. Or at least similar. He hadn’t self-harmed. There had to be a connection—but how? Had Holt told Elly about his dream before he’d been sent to the infirmary? Had she simply been affected by the horrible things he had to say? Or was his delusion being transmitted, plague-like, from person to person? Infecting Elly?

No, Park thought. That was irrational. But it was best to quarantine it, whatever it was—keep it in isolation. She would tell no one besides Keller and Wick that Holt and Ma had shared nightmares. Once the idea was planted in a susceptible mind, someone else might manifest it, especially under heightened anxiety. They would have to keep the whole thing hidden until they could find out the cause.

Hunter left the room to fetch Dr. Chanur. Natalya, the only other person left, said: “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Park shook her head. “Not exactly.” She moved Elly’s damp, heavy hair from her face; she could feel the heat rising from the woman’s skin. A fever, Park thought, which was impossible—space lacked microbes, and it had been far too long since leaving Earth for Elly to get sick from something she’d already had in her system. How could she have a fever?

Psychosomatic, she concluded, just as Natalya said, “She dug into her own arm. Made herself bleed.”

“Yes,” Park said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

Natalya glared. “What are you going to do about this?”

She wants reassurance, Park told herself, because she’s scared. Or—more likely—Natalya was using the opportunity to challenge her. Question her abilities. She’d been doing it since Antarctica, just as she’d been refusing counseling sessions with Park in the room since Antarctica. Park wanted to feel weariness, impatience, even anger towards the surveyor, but instead felt nothing except a cool disconnected bafflement. As if she were staring at a painting in a museum that she couldn’t make sense of. She straightened and said, “Try to get some rest, Severov. You’re due to go out tomorrow.”

Natalya looked at her as if Park had suggested she launch herself into space. “And how do you expect me to sleep, Doctor, under the circumstances?”

“I can offer you sedatives,” Park told her woodenly. “Or the MAD.”

Natalya scoffed. “Of course. Your given solutions.”

Yes, Park thought, it was a challenge. Natalya was trying to pick a fight with her. And at a time like this, when they had much bigger things to worry about! Where had the surveyor gotten all of this hardness, this poisonous hostility, as if everyone in the world had wronged her? She was an orphan, Park knew that. Her file stated that her parents had been killed during the Comeback. But whose hadn’t?