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"Like, voluntarily?"

The question landed low and ugly. ‘Like, voluntarily’… Which meant there had been involuntary examinations. ER visits, maybe. The kind that happened when damage couldn't be hidden anymore.

"Let's say either," Rowan said. Neutral. Even.

"Couple years. Maybe three." A pause. "Felicity — my... she wanted me to do annual checkups. I went twice. Then she—" Sage stopped.

The muscle in her jaw did something, and she looked at the paper snowflake chart on the wall. "Anyway. It's been a while."

Rowan noted the name. The almost-identification. The truncation.

"Any medications? Prescriptions, over-the-counter, supplements?"

"No."

"Allergies?"

"Mornings. Men who open doors for me. Being tricked into doctor's appointments."

Rowan didn't smile, but something happened around her eyes that might have been adjacent. "Noted. I'll make sure to add that to your chart. Drug allergies?"

"None that I know of."

"Surgical history?"

"No."

The single syllable was too fast. Clipped. Not a lie — Rowan was good at hearing lies — but a deflection. No surgeries might be true. But the speed of it said, “don't ask what comes after this question.”

Rowan moved on. A good doctor knew when to circle back.

"I'm going to listen to your heart and lungs," she said. "The stethoscope's going to be cold. I apologize in advance — I've been meaning to get one of those warming things and I keep forgetting because I'm apparently incapable of maintaining a personal life OR a properly equipped exam room."

Sage snorted. It was involuntary — Rowan saw it happen, the surprise of it, the way Sage's hand came up briefly like she wanted to catch the sound and put it back.

Good, Rowan thought. There she is.

She pressed the stethoscope to Sage's back. Listened.

Lungs clear. No crackles, no wheeze. The fever hadn't been respiratory, then — or if it had, it was resolving. Heart sounded normal, strong. This girl was healthy underneath whatever was happening on the surface. Her body was fighting for her even when she wasn't.

"Deep breath for me."

Sage breathed. The motion expanded her rib cage under Rowan's hand, and Rowan felt it — the ridge. Left side, sixth rib. Healed fracture, slightly misaligned. Not set. Not treated. Healed on its own, which meant it had healed wrong, which meant nobody had taken this girl to a hospital when her rib was broken.

Rowan kept her face still. Years of surgery had taught her that — the stillness of expression that a patient's life sometimes depended on, the refusal to let your face betray what your hands had found.

"Again," she said. "One more."

The second breath confirmed it. And found a second one — right side, eighth rib. Different age. Different incident.

Two broken ribs, at least. Neither treated. Both healed with the rough, imprecise calcification of bones left to mend themselves.

Rowan removed the stethoscope from her ears and let it settle around her neck. The weight of it felt different now. Heavier.

"Your lungs sound great," she said. "Heart too. Strong."

"I know," Sage said. "I'm basically immortal."