The syringe cap slipped from my fingers and skittered under the metal trolley, a tiny plastic crown rolling into the shadow. I swore under my breath and went after it, knees cracking as I crouched. The ward smelled of bleach, warm rice, and something older—fear that had been reheated too many times.

“Don’t drop anything,” the nurse muttered, not unkindly. Her name badge swung as she leaned over the next bed. “We’re short as it is.”

I retrieved the cap, wiped it with alcohol out of habit, and tried not to look at the clipboard in my hand. It had a neat list, each line a person, each person a number. It made suffering look organised.

Bed fourteen was where the shouting was coming from.

An old man sat upright, wrists tied with soft restraints that looked like apologies. His eyes were bright and wrong, like a television tuned to a channel that didn’t exist. He kicked at the blanket, toes bare and angry.

“Where is she?” he rasped. “You people took her!”