Despite the gurgling water and the low lights that would lull most people straight to dream-state, I'm still awake. At this point, I've given up maintaining the pretense of slumber since she's asleep.

Instead, back to the wall, facing the opening to this little room, I've pulled out three notebooks, one typifier, and one presswrite. My thoughts wander as I type, fingers dancing over the keys.

Left. I took the left path. Left was the right way to go. I know it. That's what the map said.

Or was it?

Of course it was. Left. It was definitely left. I wouldn't forget; I'm not a 'forgetting' person. I know what I'm doing, and randomly forgetting the directions that I made sure to memorize is not something I would do.

I don't just forget things.

I still remember word for word an entire Chemistry of Addictions lecture; I still remember line for line the first brain diagram I had to study; and I still remember shade for shade the pattern of the wood-grain on my year-two desk at my primary.

I don't just forget things.

So it must have been the left. I know it's the left. I wouldn't have gone that way if it wasn't.

I confidently return to my typing. The clacking bounces between the cavern walls, suddenly broken by a slap of water.

I jump and look at the stream. A lizard with frills and gills around its neck is sliding back under the surface, twitching frog legs protruding from its mouth. Shaking my head, I turn back to the presswrite. Clack, clack. Deep breath in. Clack, clack. Let it back out.

Way to let a weird lizard startle you, Sean.

Alternately referencing my notes and typing, I manage to fill the next few hours. For the fun of it, I take a sample of stream-water with the typifier, a cube-shaped device for identifying elements.

Using an eyedropper, I put four droplets onto its finely perforated grate. They sink through, and I wait. After three minutes and twenty-one seconds—according to my timepiece—twelve of the thirty vials begin to glow. Eleven of the colored vials are exactly what I expected—it identifies the water, the byproducts of the plants, the excretions from the animals. No surprises, and nothing interesting there.

But black also shows. Unknown.

My brow furrows. This is one of the most advanced versions of typifiers there are. What could be in this water that it wouldn't include?

A few feet away, there's a rustle as my quarantine mate rolls over, slightly humming as she comes to. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her sit up and squint against the glow of the typifier. "What're you doing, Sean?"

I glance up from the device. "Figuring out what's in this water." What does it look like I'm doing?

"In the middle of the night?" she asks.

I shrug, looking back to it.

"Without the lantern on?"

What, to waste oil and risk waking her up? Of course without the lantern on.

A piece of hair falls into her face, and she swipes her part to the other side. "Can you even read it in this lighting? It looks like all you're accomplishing is a dedicated stare."

Of course she assumes that me thinking something over is me not knowing what I'm doing. What kind of a scientist does she think I am exactly? Judging by her pointless questions, not much of one.

"Yes, Riveirre, I have absolutely no idea how to operate this terribly complex item. I just thought it'd be fun to fiddle with it." I quirk an eyebrow.

She stares at me through the dark, gaze unwavering.

"What?" I demand, cross.

She lies down. "Nothing," she says to the ceiling. "I guess if you want to spend your life pondering over a glass cylinder, I've got no right to intervene." She stays reclined like that with her eyes closed and hands folded over her stomach, seemingly relaxed.

Slightly annoyed now, I reply, "I never asked you to."

She simply hmms, as if I'm not worth her time. Shaking my head, I return to analyzing the typifier.

Her soft breaths mingle with the murmur of the stream, but she's obviously not asleep. The breathing pattern is all wrong, too fast, too uneven.

After scribbling down the data from the previous test, I reset the typifier and try another sample. When it's ready, I see the same composition as before, including the black 'unknown' glow.

"Curious." I scavenge my bag and pull out a tox-strip. Removing the grate-plate on top of the typifier, I extract the black-filled tube. I rinse my eyedropper in a little clean water and drop a couple dots of the dark liquid onto the strip.

When the spots of solution on the paper declare the fluid safe by not changing color, I pull the vial to my face and sniff. A sharp scent fills my nose, and my brow furrows. I record my observations. Putting a bead of the black liquid on my finger, I lift it to my mouth.

Suddenly, Miss Safety Patrolman sits bolt upright. "What are you doing, you idiot?"

I pause. Raise an eyebrow at her. She sits there watching me, eyes wide, messy hair haloing her head.

"What exactly woke you up, Riveirre? You were so sound asleep a couple of seconds ago." I smirk. "And I'm not being an idiot."

A voice echoes through my head. 'You'll never make it anywhere, you idiot, failure—'

No.

"You're not?" Riveirre asks. "You're attempting to consume unknown substances. As if that doesn't break any safety regulations."

Disdain permeates my voice. "It's not like I used a tox-strip."

She scowls. "Those don't detect everything. Are you sure you know how to use it?"

What does she mean, am I sure I know how to use it? Do I know how to use something that's a fundamental tool in alkemi? Seriously?

"Of course not," I reply, irked. "I'm just an idiot, remember?"

"Well, you were going to use your mouth as a scientific instrument, so..." She tilts her hand side to side in a so-so gesture, but there's something hard in her eyes. Determination. No. Concern? Probably not.

"'When all else fails," I begin to recite, "in the identification of an alkemitic substanstance—"

"You eat it?" she interrupts.

"'—and the substance has been shown to be safe—"

"Supposedly."

"'—especially with the use of a tox-strip, test the substance with one's olfactory and/or gustatory senses.' Rulebook of Alkemitic Discoveries, Volume Two, Chapter Three, Rule Number Five."

She narrows her eyes. "I always did think alkemists were halfwits."

"So very sorry you don't understand our genius."

Arching her eyebrows, she says, "You mean your insanity?"

My jaw clenches, but surely in the low light, she doesn't notice. "Well, if that's the way you want to see it," I growl. More lightly, I add, "But if you're so disinterested, perhaps you simply wish to return to your faux slumber?" I look back to my finger and move the dot toward my tongue.

"No," she says, snatching the digit away from my mouth. "I need you to register as good and healthy two days from now. If you insist on consuming mysterious substances, you're going to ruin my test."

"Look," I snap. I twist my wrist out of her grasp. "This is standard procedure. Plus, in the crazy off-chance that it isn't safe, I'm consuming literally less than a milliliter of this 'mysterious substance.' And," I draw out, "like I mentioned before—this is in our drinking water. If it's not safe, I figure it's better to identify it now rather than later, after we've had more than our fill." My glare hardens.

She presses her lips together and deliberately returns, "Not necessarily." She proceeds to argue with me about the topic that I got my doktorate in, and I do my best to talk sense into her. Finally fed up with her stubbornness, I bite, "And why, exactly, do you care? I'm just that idiot you're stuck with, right? The one you didn't even want to travel with in the first place. What's it to you if I get hurt or killed? It's not like you need me to do the screening on yourself. Right?"

She leans back, looking struck.

"So—what?" I press. "Why would it matter if this doesn't go well? Because"—I shrug, simmering—"at least then you'd know it wasn't safe. Right?" I smile, but it's a sour, venomous twist of my lips.

Her mouth tightens. She stares at me for several thick seconds before stating, "I can't leave until we both pass our screenings. I'm stuck here as long as you are."

"How do you figure? You don't have to stick with me. You obviously disagree with the kinds of decisions I make; you've questioned every one of them. Why not just split? Because," I add on a fake, brighter note, "I'm sure you, with your masterate in biology, know so much more about this subject than I do."

"I know more than you think I do, Sean."

"That's beside the point. The point is whether you know more than I do. And I'm pretty sure I know what I'm doing."

"It's that fraction of doubt that has me worried."

"Excuse me?" Who does she think she is? Just because she's from high-class Erreliah doesn't mean she knows anything.

"You're 'pretty' sure. You're not a hundred percent sure. You're not confident. You admit you could be making a mistake. Rationally, I don't see any reason to risk it."

My thoughts flick to another argument, another time, another person. 'You don't know anything, and you never will! You think you're so smart, but you're just a snot-nosed little boy with an undercity ego,' he raged at me.

I'm not. I'm not. I know what I'm doing.

Or do I? my mind whispers.

Of course I do. I've studied for years. I've put everything I can into alkemi.

'You're never going to get anywhere in life,' he said. 'You're going to be stuck in this place, making your mother cater to you for the rest of your life. You're just an insane little smart-aleck.'

No! I got my doktorate. I earned my education, and my place, and my title. I am informed about this situation. I know what I'm doing.

But if I'm wrong...

If I'm wrong, I'm risking my health over little more than my curiosity. Risking that this could hurt me because my immune system might be low due to the plague. Risking that this could weaken my immune system and give the plague the opportunity it needs to destroy me.

'You. Are. Nothing.'

I set my jaw. But none of that is going to happen. I know this is safe. I know what I'm doing. This substance is in a tiny quantity, tox-paper declared it safe, and it doesn't smell sickly sweet or putrid. It's safe, and if it's not, it's too small an amount to matter.

I know what I'm doing, and some vitalitist that wants to pretend to know alkemi isn't going to make me think otherwise.

My eyes narrow. "I'm 'certain' someone who's been studying the subject as long as I have knows how to deal with unknown substances. It's standard procedure."

"Then maybe you need to get a rulebook that uses logic."

My jaw clenches, nostrils flare, and this time, I don't care if she sees. "Right, Riveirre," I finally draw out.

'What are you thinking? You can't do anything. You're gonna be here forever, you little worthless—'

I push the memory away.

She gives a soft, exasperated huff. "Just—wait till the screening's over," she repeats tiredly.

I glare. "Fine. Whatever. Remind me not to try and look out for dangerous things in the future." With that, I shove my things back into my bag and roll into my blanket once more.

I don't have high hopes for sleep tonight.

The stream trickles and Riveirre breathes, and both sounds spin my thoughts faster and faster. Finally, when her breathing is soft and even, I push gently to my knees and unclasp my bag. The sample sits in its mouth. I glance over my shoulder, but the meddler is still asleep. I dip my finger in and taste it.

The bright, sharp flavor breaks over my tongue. Mintgrass. The realization feels so obvious. Though common where I lived topside as a child, the plant doesn't grow in the caves. Whatever undergrounder designed the device wouldn't have made it to test for any unique alkemitic substance the plant contains.

Success shoots through me. This stream must come from above-ground. We are getting close. I did pick the right path. I do know what I'm doing.

I do, no matter what she thinks.