A long pause, then: "I'm fine."
"I'm coming in anyway."
The door opens before I can reach for the handle. She stands there, backlit by the cabin's single window, red hair escaping from a braid that's seen better days. The freckles across her nose stand out stark against skin that's too pale, even for a human. Brown eyes meet mine with that careful blankness she's perfected—the expression that says she's cataloging exits, weighing distances, calculating how quickly she could move if she needed to.
She's been up all night. I can tell from the shadows beneath her eyes, the particular tightness around her mouth.
"I know you told me I didn't need to keep coming," I say.
"But you said someone needed to." She steps back, allowing entry. Doesn't offer it warmly, just... permits it. "So here we are."
The cabin's interior matches its exterior—functional, sparse, empty of personality. No trinkets or personal effects. A small table with two chairs. The jars I brought last time sit unopened on a shelf, next to the ones from the visit before that.
I don't comment on them. Not yet.
"How's the shoulder?"
"Fine."
"Let me see."
She hesitates, that familiar war playing across her features. The part of her that knows cooperation gets me out faster versus the part that recoils from proximity to any orc, even one who's only here to check her injuries. Finally she turns, lifting her arm with careful precision.
I move closer, professional distance only. My hands know this routine—palpate the joint, test range of motion, watch for pain responses she'll try to hide. The shoulder's healing well, better than expected given how badly it was dislocated. But the muscles are tight. Tenser than they should be at this stage.
"You're not using the salve."
"I am."
"No, you're not." I release her shoulder, step back to acceptable distance. "The tissue would be more pliable if you were applying it twice daily like I instructed."
Her jaw sets in that stubborn line I've come to recognize. "Maybe it doesn't work as well for humans."
"It works identically for humans. I've treated enough of them to know." I cross to the shelf, pick up the unopened jar of yarrow-mint paste. "This would help. If you used it."
"I forget."
"You don't forget anything." The observation is flat. "You're in pain, you're not sleeping, and you're lying about both because you think I can't tell the difference."
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, that I called it out directly. She recovers quickly, wrapping arms around herself in a gesture that's half defensive, half self-soothing.
"I'm using the other one. The one for the cuts."
"Are you."
"Yes."
I wait, letting silence do the work. It's a technique that works with stubborn patients—give them space to fill the quiet, and sometimes truth slips through. But Ressa's had practice with interrogation, the bad kind, and she simply stares back at me with those too-careful eyes.
"The ribs?" I ask.
"Better."
"Pain level."
"Two."
"Liar."
