Sometime later, the door opens and it’s Naphalie, worry written across her face. She has her lasers with her, a few anesthetic patches, and some more penth pellets—I’d recognize the flat sheets of small, round buttons anywhere. They’re an obscene shade of orange that government issue seems to favor, like reflective gear. Behind her is Ashe, his coat still on, and his gaze meets Tobin’s briefly before he looks away. Another man enters the room after him.
I place Zeb immediately from the photograph downstairs. His hair is longer now, his face covered with a scruffy, ill-kempt beard that makes him look wild. With a nervous, wide-eyed stare, he glances around the room, running a hand through his hair in a poor attempt to straighten it. He looks impossibly thin, as if he hasn’t eaten in days. Flashing us a tight smile, he turns back to the hallway and whispers, “It’s okay. Come on.”