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“It is intentional.”

“Everything with you is intentional.”

“No.”

She glanced at me.

I kept my attention on the route.

After a moment, she said, “That answer feels suspicious.”

“It should not.”

“It does.”

The clinic sat outside the busier part of the settlement, tucked between a machine-repair yard and a low structure advertising freight storage. The building itself had no medical designation on the exterior.

That was also intentional.

Talia read the faded sign above the entrance. “Tool calibration?”

“Yes.”

“This is a doctor’s office?”

“Medic.”

I shut down the transport.

She unfastened her restraint but did not move immediately. “Does he know I’m coming?”

“No.”

“Does he know you’re alive?”

“Yes.”

That surprised her. I saw it in the way her expression changed.

“You trust him.”

“Enough.”

“Which, from you, apparently means more than normal people saying they’d give someone a kidney.”

“I would not give him an organ.”

“That was not literal.”

“I know.”

She stared at me for a moment, then smiled.

I looked away before the reaction beneath my skin could become another problem.

We entered through a side door.

The clinic smelled faintly of antiseptic, heated metal, and something herbal I did not recognize. The waiting room was empty.