He didn’t understand the full question, but her tone was encouraging, and she was no longer pressed against the wall like she expected him to attack. Progress.
He pointed at the sleeping platform.
“Bunk. Or bed, I guess. They’re sort of the same thing.”
“Bed.” Easier than blanket. He pointed at the lights above them.
“Lights.”
“Lights.” He pointed at the wall.
“Wall.”
“Wall.” He pointed at her again, then touched his own eyes and made a questioning sound.
She frowned for a moment, then understood.“Eyes. These are eyes.”She pointed at his.“Your eyes are… very blue.”
Blue. A color word. He filed it away. “Eyes. Blue.”
A small laugh escaped her—the first genuine sound of amusement he’d heard from her—and the effect on him was immediate and devastating. He wanted to hear that sound again. He wanted to do whatever it took to make her produce it.
“You’re fast,”she said, moving closer still.“Picking up words, I mean. That’s… that’s really fast.”
He didn’t understand all of it, but he could parse from context. She was commenting on his speed of acquisition. And she was right—he was learning quickly. More quickly than should have been possible, even accounting for his natural gifts. Another thing to file away for later examination.
Greatly daring, he reached out and brushed his finger lightly next to her eye, pulling it back immediately, even though he wanted to linger on the softness.
“Eyes. Jaz?”
“Oh. My eyes are brown.”
Color had tinted her cheeks again, but she didn’t pull away. For a moment he considered asking for other, even more interesting words, but he didn’t want to frighten her. Instead, he pointed at the device she’d been using to examine him.
“Scanner. Medical scanner.”
“Scanner.” He pointed at the entrance to the small space.
“Door.”
“Door.” He pointed at the swirling clouds of ice beyond the small window.
“Storm. That’s the storm. It’s been going for days.”
Storm.That word resonated somewhere deep, connected to memories that felt like they belonged to someone else. Storms were dangerous. Storms required shelter. Storms could kill. But she had given him shelter and kept him safe while the storm raged outside.
He met her eyes, trying to convey something that words—even if he’d had them—couldn’t quite capture. Gratitude, yes, but morethan that. An acknowledgment of what she’d done, what she’d risked, by bringing him here instead of leaving him to die.
“Jaz,” he said, and then reached for a word he thought he’d heard her use, hoping he was remembering correctly. “Thank… you?”
Her eyes widened. She smiled again, but softer this time, as if he’d given her a gift instead of simply speaking two words.
“You’re welcome,”she said quietly. Then she cleared her throat, her professional demeanor reasserting itself.“You’re welcome. That’s what you say when someone thanks you.”
“Welcome.” He filed it away with the rest. “You are… welcome.”
She laughed again, that small surprised sound, and shook her head.“That’s—close. But usually you don’t say that unless someone says ‘thank you’ first. It’s a response, not a… never mind. We’ll work on it.”
Work on it.He understood enough of that to know it was a promise of future interactions. Of more words, more learning, and more chances to hear her laugh. He found himself smiling at the thought, an expression that felt rusty and unfamiliar on his face, and watched her eyes widen at the sight of it.
