“No.”
I swallow my frustration. This is progress. Small, but it’s real. I’ll take it.
“Then how?” I press.
He tightens his jaw, narrowing his eyes, like the question itself doesn’t fit cleanly into something he can give back.
“Follow,” he says finally.
I frown.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is.”
Flat and certain. Frustration flares again, sharp and immediate, but once again I clamp it down. If I understand anything, it’s that getting angry won’t help. I shift my weight, adjusting my stance in the sand, forcing myself to slow down. Think. I have to think this through.
“You’re not explaining things because you don’t want to,” I say.
No response. I tilt my head and watch him.
“No,” I correct. “That’s not it.”
His gaze flicks back to me. Brief, but focusing on me.
“You can’t explain it,” I say.
He doesn’t confirm it, but also he doesn’t deny it. Something in his posture shifts. It’s subtle, but enough that it leads me to believe that he’s not unwilling to share and to talk. I think he’s not able to. Whatever has been done to him has left him restrained. I let out a quiet breath, recalibrating.
“Okay,” I say. “Fine.”
New approach. I step a little closer—not enough to crowd, but enough to lock his attention onto me.
“What do they want?”
Silence for a long time. We march on, unstopping, his constant scanning. I wait because I see he’s thinking what to say or how to say it. Finally he speaks.
“Me.”
That makes my stomach tighten and cold spread over my back, fighting against the constant heat and pressure of Tajss.
“Why?”
A longer pause. His gaze shifts down, then away, then back. Searching, but not the environment—for the answer.
“Take,” he says.
I wait.
“Hold.”
Another beat.
“Test.”
The words are simple, but not small. I study him. The scars. The way he moves. The way nothing about him fully relaxes. Understanding begins to click into place.
“You weren’t out here,” I say slowly, alone. “You didn’t leave by choice.”
