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Behind her, the man who doesn't seem to miss a thing pushes forward and follows First. I rest my head on First's shoulder and blink up at the man trailing behind us. He's dressed in a brown shirt, simple but neat. My eyes slowly glide up and down him, and they find nothing at all objectionable. He's so average—height, weight, everything—but there's something about him that tells me he's the most interesting person aboard this ship. After me, obviously. I don't know why I keep looking at him. Tan skin, brown hair cut neatly. If I had to pick a word to describe him, it'd be trim. But he's got this air about him, like he knows how the whole universe fits together, and that makes me wonder how I might fit into his carefully organized world. Does he have a slot for chaos, or am I going to have break some stuff to make room on the shelf for me? Either route poses fun and exciting possibilities.

"Hello," I tell the man trailing behind us. I try to sound casual, like this is a routine day, being cradled by a big hulking person on my way to a med bay while I have hemorrhaged eyes and a mouth that had all the saliva boiled out of it, but my voice is still all scratchy and raw and my ears are slightly ringing, so I'm not even sure if I got both syllables out.

The man smiles. "Hello," he says back. Oh, good. He's going to pretend this is normal too. I immediately like him even more.

"You know," I say, wiggling so I don't have to crane my neck around quite so much, "if you'd waited, I bet First would have carried you to the med bay, too."

First grunts.

"I don't mind walking," the man says.

"But consider this: you could be not walking. And carried. Like a baby."

"It does look comfortable."

First turns a corner, and glass doors slide open. I'm trying to think of something quippy and witty and charming to say about how comfortable First's arms are, but then they dump me on a table that's lacking in the padding department, and my breath comes out with a little oof.

After dropping me, First heads back out the door. The man who followed us here looks around, unsure of where to stand, but eventually leans against the wall, watching us. Nandina is already at the table by the bed, various scanners beeping and, presumably, scanning.

"You're recovering just fine," Nandina says. She holds up a small bottle. "You want to do the eye drops, or would you like me to?"

"Ugh," I say, but I take the bottle.

"Three drops, each eye."

I lean back and put the medicine in my eyes. It feels slimy for an instant, but the more I blink, the better my vision seems. Less red, anyway.

My suit is already partially exposed, the seal-tight released and the inner zipper showing the top portion of my chest.

"This is a good suit," Nandina says.

"Thanks. It was ridiculously expensive—"

"Now strip."

I blink at her. "Not even dinner first?"

She chuckles. "You've got some mild muscle tears. And a little atrophy. How long have you been in space this round? You really need to have some proper gravity every three turns."

"Medics always say that." It wasn't hard to guess what Nandina's role on the Halifax is, but I appreciate the twinkle in her eye at the acknowledgment.

"I'm guessing you've not seen solid ground for at least six turns." Nandina gives me a stern look, hands on her hips.

Beyond her I catch a glimpse of the good-looking man, gaze as razored as ever. "Seven," I say, watching him even as I answer her. It's like I can see tiny gears inside his brain, winding around everything I say. "Or eight? Maybe five. Who can remember, really?" I wait until he focuses on me and shoot him a grin.

Oh, a poker face. Nice. Totally gonna break that.

"You take your vits, right?" Nandina says. "Also, I wasn't joking."

"About what?"

"Strip."

She's the doc, but a quick glance at Eyes tells me he has no intention of leaving, and there's not a curtain for privacy in this med bay. It's all bright white lights and exposed beds.

"Dinner after," Nadia promises.