Next morning starts early and with a makeover. Olivia sits on Mig's bed and uses his helmet's visor as a mirror. She tucks, loosens, then retucks strands of hair. Small curls emphasize the curve of her neck. The hairpin contrasts sharply with her black hair. Plastic silver beads have to be stuck in to complete the look. He pushes the last one in to a strategically placed curl and then shrugs.

"We done, your highness?"

"A good dynasty starts with good servants."

"I'll get on it." 

Olivia flicks and pulls at her fringe. "How is it you can put a bullet through someone's head at 100 yards but you can't avoid stabbing my scalp?"

"Better aim with a gun."

She shoots him a dirty look, then goes back to preening. He gives himself a once over. A deeply tanned face and pink everything else. It's the Martian mask. Week old stubble, close-cropped black and grey hair, and a smattering of scars that start on his lip and end at his eye. Another grizzled old ḡarīb.

"Let's go."

"Fine, fine." Olivia grabs her crutches and stands up. "How do I look?"

Her clothes are hand-stitched. They're drab and formless, but they fit. Her wrists and ankles are wrapped in bandages. He could never find any shoes big enough for her, so he made do with the cannibalized parts of his old suit boots, foam, and spacecraft tape. He'll have to make a custom suit for her, too. His won't fit.

"It's not a fashion walk," he says and dons his helmet.

"Everybody stares."

"Yeah, well." He slides the strap of his M189 over his shoulder and pats the barrel. "You point, I shoot."

The corners of her mouth twitch. Mig pushes open their front door and steps outside. The Honeycomb is starting to stir. The lights are still dimmed to conserve power overnight. He looks at his control module and switches his radio to CEW52. It reports terrestrial and near-earth weather all the time. A woman's voice fusses in.

"...and if you are heading out of orbit today, watch yourselves. A spike in solar activity this morning is expected to push the Van Allen's outward. It has also prompted the Space Weather Centre to issue a warning for a category G3 geomagnetic storm later in the week. Expect significant communication blackouts."

Olivia swings out on her crutches. "That's Betty Martinez. I like her."

He shuts their front door and engages the lock. "Why?"

"She could make eating a sandwich sound dangerous."

They start walking down the steep, zig zagging stairs carved from the rock and sealed with paint. Mig clears the way, although most people move as a courtesy.

One of their neighbours steps aside and points towards the ground level. His name is Azizi. An old combat medic who settled here with his grandson. He has no suit, no contacts with blue caps or skimmers, but that hasn't stopped him from looking after people once the doctors leave.

"Better hurry. The line's already forming."

Mig presses his index and middle fingers against the corner of his visor. It's the Martian gesture for hello, thank you, and goodbye. Azizi mirrors it by pressing his fingers just underneath his eye.

Olivia slumps over her crutches. "We won't make it."

"We'll make it."

They clamber down to the second, then the first level. By the time they reach the ground, people are leaving their homes. The lights come on full force. He half-turns and makes sure Olivia is right behind him before crossing to the other side of the Honeycomb. The bar's getting loud and rowdy already. He scans two old men sitting outside. Black and Turza. His old drinking buddies are already knocking back beers. They give a haphazard tap under their eyes when he walks by.

The local clinic is run by whoever swings by New Shanidar that month. Most of a doctor's time is spent in the Blue patching up troops and handing out whatever new medication is in fashion. On one sol during the week, they condescend to treat locals. The line already stretches around the corner. He takes his place and keeps an eye on Olivia. She stands beside him and looks out over the Honeycomb. Sweat collects along her forehead and temples. Her arms have a fine tremor. Betty Martinez keeps chatting on the radio. He looks around, but there's nothing to offer besides space by the bar flies.

"Don't coddle me. I can stand on my feet."

"They're your feet."

The line moves slowly. Most people see Azizi for their ailments. Broken bones, burns, minor illnesses. When it comes to more serious things like radiation poisoning or exotic medication, people wait for the doctor.

After nearly an hour, Olivia reaches for him. He puts his arm around her waist and lets her lean against him. She holds onto both crutches with her left hand and drapes her right arm across his shoulders. Her nails drum against his suit. She's nearly half a head taller than him, but he carries her weight easily. People make a point of not looking, which means they're all looking, but Olivia's eyes are unfocused. He takes an extra pack of water from one of the pouches on the soft lower half of his suit. It has a special straw for use in microgravity.

"Drink."

She sips some water and lets her head loll against him. "I really hate waiting, Mig."

"You wanted to look pretty."

"Go sunbathe in the Rust," she says, but the corners of her mouth twitch upwards.

It takes another hour of shuffling forward before they step through the clinic doors. There's only one room. Inside is cool, well lit, and smells strongly of an air freshener. A man sits at a temporary plastic desk. Files scan across the surface of his glasses. Mid-thirties, pale olive skin, and a well-tailored shirt and pants.

"Hello," he says and makes a beckoning gesture with fingers pointed down towards the ground. "My name is Dr. Maro. How can I...?"

Maro looks up and does a double take. First at Olivia, then at Mig and the automatic rifle. Mig helps her sit, shuts off the radio, then takes her crutches and leans against the far wall.

She taps her fingers beneath her eye. "Honest Olive."

"Olivia Ninh, of course." He offers a tentative smile. "Xin chào."

She stares at him. "Hi."

Mig scowls as she starts to flush red. It's something he could never provide: a connection with her earthly ethnicity. Many of the region's blue caps are descendants from the Anglosphere and he's no exception. The official languages are English and Arabic, but everyone born here speaks New Shanidar pidgin. She's completely dislocated. Her father was from Cần Thơ and her mother from Seattle. Two distinct cultures often mushed together as simply Earth.    

"You have...Anansi-Lee's Syndrome?" Maro's eyes flick back and forth reading the text on his glasses.

"Yep," she says, "I'm a moon baby."

"Any changes?"

She looks down at her lap. "I need supplements so I can move to Earth."

"I see. Would it be alright if I did a physical?"

Olivia sips more water. "Why not?"

Maro stands up and offers his hands, but she forces herself onto her feet and walks to the examination table. He glances at Mig.

"If you would not mind stepping out...?"

She leans on the table. "We live together."

"Very well."

The act of undressing is slow and complex. Mig waits until she looks up at him before setting her crutches aside and crossing the room. He helps pull her sleeves over her arms and its bandages, and draws her shirt over her head. She has to bend down and pain flashes across her face. He crouches down and takes off her shoes. It's easy to draw her pants down her legs after that. She puts her hand on his shoulder and raises one foot, then the other. She uses him as a steadying point to sit on the examination table. He lays her clothes on the table within arm's reach and goes back to leaning against the wall.

Maro gives her a reassuring smile, then gets on with the physical. He checks her pulse the old fashioned way by pressing his two fingers on her wrist where the radial artery branches into her hand. After a minute, he presses a small sensor pad against her chest and prompts her to breathe in, then breathe out. The sensor amplifies the sound of Olivia's lungs. He moves the pad over each lobe. When he holds the small sensor less than a foot off her skin, her heart, lungs, and thoracic vertebrae appear in ghostly white lines. Her spine sprouts upward like a sapling. The image is in real time. The lungs are mostly black spaces full of air, but her heart throbs slightly off-centre.

He nods as if someone spoke. "Any tingling? Cramping or spasms? Trouble keeping your balance?"

Olivia stares down at her own innards. "No."

"What about your eyesight?" He leans forward and stares into her eyes. "Any changes in vision or colour?"

"Eyesight's fine. Got into lunar dust as a kid and lunar dust got into me. Almost went blind." She stares back at him until he looks away. "Eyes used to be brown, now they're not."

"Depigmentation can occur after injury. It may be possible to clone melanocytes, but you would have to travel to Hesperia Station for the procedure. Would you be comfortable laying down?"

She exhales carefully and lays on the table before swinging her legs up. Her feet dangle over the edge. The soles are dirty and callused.

He holds a small sensor pad over her left calf. A window of green lines appear. Her tibia and fibula look avian, and Maro frowns.

"What?" Olivia's voice rises a note. "What is it?"

"This is the beginning of a Looser Zone. It is a type of insufficiency fracture. Your bones are soft and unable to cope with everyday stresses. It is to be expected with Anansi-Lee's Syndrome. Are you in pain?"

"Not really."

"Well, do not worry, Ms. Ninh. It is still very small and treatable."

Maro smiles reassuringly at her and moves on to her other leg, then her arms, then finally asks to roll onto her side where he runs the sensor pad over her spinal column. She stares at the wall with a blank expression.

"That is it," he says. "Now if you could just sit up for me."

She sits up.

"I would like to do some blood work. Would you hold out your hand? There will be a little pain, but only a little. I promise."

She holds out her hand. Maro sets the sensor pad down and unwraps a sterile sampler. Everyone calls it a prick stick. He presses her index finger on the tip. There's a click and she twitches. The sampler retracts and pulls a perfect droplet of blood inside. The results are sent over wireless to the medical network.

"I should have results by next week." He sits back down at his desk and takes off his glasses. After rubbing his eyes, he fixes Olivia with a frank look. "I want to be very clear, Ms. Ninh. Mars has only 38% of Earth's gravity. Your health would be severely compromised and I do not use that term lightly. I strongly recommend you continue supplements and sign up for Avix-K. You are eligible as of this spring."

Oliva finally looks at him. "Avix-K."

Maro shoots Mig a look. "Anansi-Lee's Syndrome is very rare. I assume you are a survivor of Luna-9, yes? You can apply for surgery and rehabilitation off-world." He taps his glasses and a projection appears on the desk again, which he begins to type on. "Fare and board are paid for, and 50% of all costs will be covered. Corrective surgery will come with risks, but in your case, I can see no alternative." He taps his glasses again and faces her. "I have prescribed more supplements and some Noxadil for the pain. It should be ready for pick-up immediately."

"Local pharm won't have it," Mig says. "Skimmers."

"Have you been on anything at all?" Maro looks at him, then Olivia. "Any phosphates? Calcium?"

She shrugs. "I ate walnuts last night."

Maro's mouth opens and closes a few times. "That is not acceptable."

"Try living it."

"Of course." He has the grace to look chastened. "I must ask for ortho-cement from Fort Secchi, but it should arrive within the next three days. Please see me again as soon as you are able. A cast is all I can offer now. You must avoid strenuous physical activity."

"Don't need a cast."

"I—see." Maro sits back, eyebrows nearly at his hairline. "Are you certain?"

"It's why I have tall, dark, and handsome here."

Mig pushes himself away from the wall. When Olivia stands up, he automatically goes about dressing her again. Her hand clamps down on his shoulder. He can feel it through his suit. After he slips her shoes on, he stands up and gathers her crutches.

"As soon as possible," Maro says again. "Please."

"I won't forget." She grabs her crutches and lurches out the door.

When they step outside, the line has wound all the way around the block. He turns CEW52 back on as they cross the Honeycomb. Betty Martinez has been replaced by another woman. Olivia stops at the beginning of the stairs that lead up to their home. Her head tilts back and she takes in the full height of the structure. Her shoulders start to shake. Then she lowers her head and the shakes spread through her body. She loses her grip on her right crutch. He gently pushes her upright. When she looks down at him, her eyes are glassy, but she's laughing. A tear hangs suspended on her eyelashes.

"I looked at that place before. Their little miracle surgery is over ♁978,000. I was okay when I didn't have anything to hope for, but...." She covers her face with one hand and shakes her head. "We can't even make half that terra."

He pushes the crutches against her chest, then scoops her up. His back aches in protest. She wraps her arms around his neck and cries silently. Azizi watches from the third level, a knowing expression cut into his face. By the time Mig climbs to the top, his body is a series of cramps. Olivia's cheek rests against the strap of his M189. He gently sets her down feet first. She leans on the wall and watches him shove the door open. She shuffles her way inside, throws her hairpin against her computer screen, and collapses onto her bed. Her silhouette is cast against the curtain dividing their bedrooms. She curls as small as she's able. The silence left in her wake is as pure as vacuum.

Mig turns to see Azizi walking toward him. He shuts the door and doffs his helmet. He hooks it on the right side of his belt and sits down against the wall. The air feels nice on his face.

"Bad news?"

He shakes his head. "Good news we can't use."

Azizi glances down at him, then drops his gaze to the line stretching from the clinic. "Ah."