Act 3: Recovery
The days start to feel different. Not normal. Not like before. Different in a way I can't name at first.
Then I realise: I'm not counting exits anymore.
I still notice them. Every door, every window, every path out of a room. The habit is too deep to break. I notice them the way you notice weather. Automatically. Without urgency.
The counting is what stopped. The constant calculation of how fast I could get out, which way I'd run, what I'd grab on the way. It's still there, somewhere, but it's not running in the background like a programme I can't close.
I notice this one morning over breakfast. Porridge again. Thin, tasteless. I'm eating it anyway. The hall is busy, noisy, warm. I'm sitting near the wall because old habits die hard, and I'm facing the door because some habits don't die at all.
I'm just not afraid of what might come through it.
That's something.Hugh gives me more responsibility. Not weapons. Not guard duty. Logistics.
"Supply routes need mapping," he says, dropping a hand-drawn map on the warehouse table. "We've been hit twice this month. I want to know if there's a pattern."
I spread the map out. Pin locations. Draw lines between the known attack sites. Within an hour, I see what he suspected. Two routes, both within striking distance of the same junction. Someone knows our schedule.
"Change the timing," I say. "Randomise the departures. Run a decoy convoy on the old schedule and see if it gets hit."
Hugh looks at me. That same measured look. Not surprised. Just assessing.
"You've done this before."
"Not like this." I tap the map. "The principle's the same. Find the pattern, break the pattern."
"Do it. Work with Marcus on the schedule."
Marcus is less enthusiastic. He sits across from me in the warehouse, arms crossed, watching me mark routes on a map like I'm planning an invasion.
"You're not military," he says.
"Reserves. Six SCOTS."
"Reserves." He says it like it means something different than what I said. "Hugh seems to think you're useful."
"Hugh seems to think a lot of things."
One corner of his mouth twitches. Not a smile. An acknowledgement.
"Fine. Show me what you've got."
I show him. He argues with half of it. Some of his arguments are good. Some aren't. We find a middle ground. By the time we're done, we have a new schedule that doesn't repeat a single departure time for three weeks.
It's not much. It's something.
Zoe finds me that afternoon. Not by accident this time. She comes looking.
"I heard you're doing logistics now."
"Supply routes. Pattern analysis."
She leans against the wall next to me. We're outside the warehouse. The air is cold and clean.
"That's good, Jamie."
"Don't sound so surprised."
"I'm not surprised you can do it. I'm surprised you're doing it." She pauses. "Voluntarily. Without a weapon."
It's the closest she's come to acknowledging what happened. What I was. What I nearly did.
"Turns out I'm more useful this way."
"Turns out." She looks at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me. "Are you sleeping?"
"Most nights."
"Dr. Cameron?"
"Every week."
"Good." She says it simply. No follow-up. No push. Just good.
We stand there for a while. The courtyard moves around us. People, noise, cold air. It's not comfortable. Not yet. It's something.
"I should get back," she says. "Dr. Fraser's got me on wound care this afternoon. Real wounds. Stitches and everything."
"You're enjoying it."
"I'm good at it." A small smile. The first one I've seen from her in a long time. "Turns out vet skills translate better than anyone expected."
She walks off toward the medical bay. I watch her go. The distance between us hasn't vanished. It might never vanish. It's just not as wide as it was.
Evening. The hall is warm and loud. I'm eating something that might be stew. It tastes like something. Progress.
Anya sits down across from me. No preamble. No hesitation.
"You look less like you're planning an escape route."
"Old habits."
"Old habits are hard to break." She eats with the same efficiency I remember. Spoon to mouth, chew, swallow. No wasted motion. "I heard you're working with Marcus now."
"Supply routes. Nothing exciting."
"Nothing exciting is underrated." She sets her spoon down. "The people at the Braes spent months looking for excitement. Didn't end well."
She's not lecturing. She's talking."How are the groups going?"
"Good. Better than I expected." She picks up her spoon again. "People are starting to talk. Really talk. Not just about what happened. About what they want next."
"What do they want next?"
"Same thing everyone wants. Safety. Purpose. A reason to get up in the morning." She shrugs. "The usual human disaster wishlist."
I almost laugh. Almost.
"What about you?" she asks. "What's on your wishlist?"
The question catches me off guard. Not because it's intrusive. Because I have an answer.
"To be useful. To not be afraid of the wrong things. To stop counting exits."
Anya considers this. No judgment in her expression. Just processing.
"The exits thing sounds like a habit. Habits can change."
"I'm working on it."
"Good." She stands, picks up her bowl. "See you around, Jamie."
"Yeah."
She walks toward the kitchens. I watch her for a moment. Not with the calculating gaze I used to use on everyone. Just watching. The way she moves through the room. Efficient, warm, certain of her place in it.
I go back to my stew. It tastes better than it has in weeks.
Later, walking back to my room. The corridors are quiet. Most people are in the hall or asleep. I pass the east wing and glance at the locked door.
The guard nods at me. I nod back.
Medical supplies. Antibiotics and insulin.The knowledge doesn't make me angry. Doesn't make me suspicious. It just sits there. A fact. Like the guard rotation, like the supply schedule, like everything else in this place.
Ordinary. Complicated. Real.
I keep walking. The door doesn't matter. The exit doesn't matter. What matters is the room I'm walking toward, and the fact that I'm not walking there because I'm running from something.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I'm just going to bed.