Leaving the infirmary feels like a negotiation rather than a victory, and I am painfully aware that I am losing on technicalities even as my feet finally touch the corridor stone outside the door. Alice stands with her arms folded, expression calm but unyielding, while Adam hovers close enough to catch me if I sway, which I do not, even though the effort it takes to remain upright makes my head throb in quiet protest.
“You are not cleared,” Alice says, not unkindly, just factual.
“I’m mobile,” I counter. “And conscious. And not actively bleeding.”
“That is a very low bar,” she replies.
I glance at Adam, who is watching me like I might dissolve if he looks away for too long, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes because my ribs still ache when I breathe too deeply and that would only gi
