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“Yeah.”

“But I am not empty.”

Her face changes around relief. “Good.”

“I am frightened by how much freedom remains after certainty.”

“That is probably healthy. People who love freedom without being scared of it tend to start committees or revolutions. Sometimes both.”

“You are thinking of yourself.”

“I contain multitudes, and several of them need supervision.”

I turn my body toward her. The medics have treated the worst of my injuries, but pain still pulls across my ribs and back. Standing too long makes my legs feel unsteady, though I would rather be flayed than admit that to the trauma physician. Anita sees it anyway and subtly shifts closer, giving me support without making a production of it.

“You are doing that carefully,” I say.

“Doing what?”

“Offering help without declaring that I need it.”

She glances away. “I’m learning. Slowly. With great personal inconvenience.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You better. Emotional growth is exhausting.”

I touch the side of her face with two fingers, careful of the healing strip on her cheek. “You came here to support me, not to fix me.”

Her breath catches. “I almost tried to fix you three times on the way down.”

“I know.”

“Of course you know.”

“You resisted.”

“Heroically.”

“Yes.”

She laughs softly, but it breaks near the end. “I hate seeing you hurt.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean this kind.” She taps lightly against my chest, nowhere near the bandages. “I can handle physical injuries badly, but at least there are scanners and medics and somebody official to yell at. This is different. I can’t stitch your faith back together.”

“No.”

“I can’t replace what you lost.”

“No.”

“And part of me keeps wanting to throw arguments at it until something holds, because that is what I do. I find cracks, I fill them with theory, and then I pretend the structure is safe.”

I cup her jaw more fully. “You do not have to be the structure.”

Her eyes close for a second.