"Permission granted," Mikhailis said. "I love a scolding."
He tasted the air and watched the breath ribbon. The blue line swelled, fell, swelled again, always a touch crooked, like a river refusing to run straight.
"Exhale," Thalatha called, just loud enough to carry to the second rank.
Boots moved. The front file stepped into the pendulum gap, each person landing on a green dot that seemed a palm's width too far until it wasn't. The nurse captain at midline kept a soft count with her shoulders, not one-two-three, but two, three, five. Eyes were down. Lids at half.
The Hound loped out onto the catwalk, chain ring muffled under its scarf. It began to scribble its ugly loop pattern across the mid-span—curves that never met themselves cleanly, a child's bad river drawn by a poet who disliked straight roads. The remnant pack leaned to correct for it, and their correction did not agree with itself.
