We walked through a narrow hallway that dissected the building, passing by the large room where meals were served. It was empty at the moment, but I caught a glimpse of a kitchen and many tables set up with chairs, waiting for their occupants. My stomach roiled at the thought of food, but the ache in my ribs and ankle were stronger.

The boy passed by the doors without pausing, and pushed out through another door and into a shady courtyard. There was only a narrow gap between the squat building and the buildings behind it, and it was mostly paved over anyway. Trees grew in little circles of dirt, their branches stretching out and creating natural canopies for children to play under.

We crossed to a twisting staircase in the block of apartments directly behind the squat building. I counted three stories, and then the boy stepped off onto a landing and walked us down a hallway to a door about halfway down. Someone had painted the number 189 in sloppy yellow paint on the door.

The room was small and cramped, even without much furniture. A large stove sat in the back, taking up most of the space, and a curtain divided the room up. At the moment, it was drawn back and we were greeted with the sight of a family of six. They sat on cots pressed right up next to each other, and were playing cards. The children stared in open curiosity, but the parents tried to be discreet. I barely paid them attention as Nadia led me into the room and over to a cot.

Not being able to speak to us, the boy didn't linger for long. He disappeared into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. The family began to speak to themselves, drawing my gaze. They had the same tanned skin and dark hair as Nadia, but their language was no Rumonin. I guessed it might be the dialect of the nomadic people that lived near Prest, but I wasn't sure. At any rate, they didn't seem that interested in us at all, and the mother got up to whip the curtain closed between our two sides of the room.

"Are you comfortable?" Nadia asked, her delicate hands running over my shoulders and down my arms. I wasn't comfortable in the least, but I could tell her any lie in the book if it meant she'd stay close like this.

Unfortunately, a moment later the door opened and an older man with no hair stepped into the room. "Mr. and Mrs. Popov?" he asked in Rumoni.

Nadia stammered an affirmative as he marched across the small space between the door and us. With an air of authority, he pulled up one of the chairs that sat around the tiny table in the corner, and plopped it down in front of me.

"I am Doctor Hirom. The Committee informed me that you were injured in Rumonin?"

I bristled a bit at his brisk tone, but knew he was only trying to help. I relayed an abbreviated version of our escape. I told him of the flight through a broken window and over the perimeter fence, but left out any explanation of the injuries I'd collected while fighting for the Vigilant Men, or after I'd been arrested for desertion. Let him think all my injuries came from tumbling over the fence. I didn't want to admit my part in their bloody plan, and as much as the Flaunsians seemed to be helpful, the sight of those emerald uniforms on the bus had put me on edge.

My history was now mine alone, and I'd carry it with me into the grave with as few people knowing it's dark secrets as I could.

"Well, these ribs are broken," the Doctor said, after poking and prodding me. Each time he touched me, it burned in pain, but I tried to not to show much. I didn't want Nadia getting worried. The Doctor, as a result, didn't know to be gentle. "The good news is, they seem to be well on the mend. The ankle was merely sprained, and with some rest you should have use of it again. They will all be tender for a few months yet, but nothing that will impede you from your regular activities within a few weeks."

He motioned for me to remove my shirt as he pulled a bundle of bandages from his medical case. I tried to pretend that I didn't understand him, but the Doctor only sighed in frustration and made the signal again. I gripped the edge of my shirt until the Doctor looked like he might strip me himself, and then slowly drew it up. Nadia had to help me pull it over my head, since my ribs screamed once my arms lifted too high, and so she was greeted up close and personal to the yellow bruises scattered across my torso like landmasses on a map. I quickly tucked my arms in close, trying to hide the scars and gashes across my stomach.

I'd seen the other men in my unit while with the Vigilant Men. They'd looked like skeletons with their skin pressed so tightly over their bones and no fat to soften them. Bruises and scars and blood abrasions-- it had been disturbing, even though I knew I'd looked just like them. I didn't want Nadia to see, but she'd seen it now, and her eyes filled with a pity that made me want to hide away under the cot.

The Doctor, oblivious to it all, pulled my arms up and wound the bandages around my chest to support my broken ribs. As he worked, I tried to distract myself from the pain.

"You look Flaunsian, so how do you know Rumoni so well? I barely hear an accent," I asked.

The Doctor glanced up from his work. "I studied there for a decade, under Doctor Visky, to help improve my work at home. I was just finishing up some new research with him when the uprising forced me to leave."

Nadia looked blank at the name, but I had heard it before at many of Father's balls. "Doctor Visky? That means you're an undertaker?" He was the best in the city, tasked with preserving and displaying the remains of the royal families, as well as anyone rich enough to afford his services.

The Doctor quirked an eyebrow. "Impressive that you would know him. But, no, I am not an undertaker. I'm a scientist, trying to understand the body through autopsies." When he saw the alarm on our faces, he was quick to reassure us. "Don't worry, I have my medical license and worked as a physician for many years before my current research."

"Well, I'm glad you aren't here to try and get me to donate my body to science, at any rate," I said.

"You're perfectly safe. You'd have to be much nearer to death for me to ask such a thing." He'd just finished with the bandages and tied them off. Leaning back, he took in his handiwork before nodding in satisfaction. Then, he examined the rest of my torso and clucked his tongue when his eyes landed on my caved-in stomach.

"Did the Refugee Committee offer you some food?" the Doctor asked.

"Yes, but it hasn't come yet."

"Good. You're dangerously underweight, and your injuries won't heal properly if your body doesn't have the energy to devote to them."

"I understand," I replied.

Doctor Hirom finished up the rest of my care, bandaging my ankle and cleaning the abrasion, before packing away the extras into his bag. As he stood, he offered Nadia three rolls of bandages and a salve.

"Give him a wash as soon as you can, and replace the bandages every two days. With rest, you'll have your husband back to normal soon."

Nadia thanked him and he dipped his chin as he walked out the door. She hadn't even the chance to step back before a young woman appeared with a basket and a few words in stilted Rumoni that explained this was our dinner. Once she handed it off, she disappeared back into the hallway.

As Nadia set the basket down on the table, I got up and hobbled over to sit down. I lowered carefully, trying not to jar my ribs, but not succeeding. I cringed but tried to hide it by looking into the basket as Nadia unpacked two strips of dried meat and jam-spread hunks of bread.

Out of the corner of my eye, the flicker of the blanket caught my attention. I glanced in that direction to see that the family had pulled it back aside and were now staring at our food. The children wriggled, clearly being barely constrained by their parents, who glanced at us with huge eyes.

"Should we offer them some?" Nadia whispered.

"I don't know. Do you think there's enough?" I glanced down at the meager portions, and I knew if we shared we'd be barely better off than before. The family may be hungry, but surely they'd been fed by the Comittee at latest once a day? Nadia and I had nothing but a few handfuls of grain in days.

"Eat yours," Nadia said. "The doctor said you needed it to heal."

I felt horrible, but I knew I wouldn't be able to make it much longer if I gave up the meat and bread. My whole body felt like it was made of lead, weighing me down until I felt like I could barely move. If I gave up the food, I wouldn't be of much use to Nadia. It was better to eat now than become a burden. I looked away from the family, shame burning across my cheeks as I tried to choke down the food.

Nadia dug around in her pockets for a moment before pulling out the dried grain we'd pilfered from the train. They were a bit dusty, but otherwise fine. All together it made a double handful, which she carefully walked over to the mother. Relief flooded me that they'd be able to eat too, and I wanted to pull Nadia into a hug for remembering the grains.

"Sorry, it's all we have," Nadia said, even though they couldn't understand her. The mother seemed to understand our intentions, though, and took the grains almost religiously. She placed them in a pot that sat nearby, and sent her oldest daughter over to the stove with it. Her smile was genuine when she bestowed it on Nadia.

When she spoke, it was a words that both the nomadic language and Rumoni shared.

"Blessings."