The physical therapy room smells of crushed pine needles, damp earth, and the sharp, antiseptic tang of iodine. It is a smell that has become inextricably linked with survival, a daily reminder of the price we paid to build this new world.
I sit on the edge of the examination table, my left arm resting in Margot’s capable hands. She is working the dense, fibrous scar tissue around my shoulder, her thumbs pressing deep into the nerve damage left by the Mariana Trench frostbite. My jaw clenches, a sharp, blinding spike of pain shooting down to my fingertips, but I don't pull away.
"You’re tensing," Margot says softly, her silver-streaked hair escaping its bun. She pauses, her hands resting gently on my skin. "You have to let the muscle release, Luna. If you hold the tension, the nerves won
