She felt rested. Warm. Heavy. High.
Yes.
Still high.
Her thoughts arrived one at a time and with generous space between them.
She moved one hand.
The plastic stuck faintly to the fur beneath her wrist.
Kimia frowned.
There it was.
The body had done what bodies did.
Whiteblood toxin dampened her fur and hair almost completely.
The sheet beneath her carried the whiteblood odor.
She touched one cheek.
Hot.
Not dangerously.
Probably.
That word had become less meaningful.
Kimia sat up.
The room shifted gently, then returned.
“Ah.”
Her own voice sounded distant.
She checked the bedside clock.
Six forty-eight.
Kimia stared.
Six forty-eight.
This information required several seconds to become useful.
Evening.
Tarkhe.
He had said four hours.
When had he left?
Kimia tried to reconstruct it.
The effort became uninteresting.
She stood.
Bad idea.
The floor moved under her.
She waited.
The sensation passed.
Shower.
That was next.
She gathered the empty vials, placed them together, then stopped.
Why?
Hide them? Dispose of them?
Later.
She placed them inside the waste container beneath several pieces of paper.
There.
A childish concealment.
Sufficient.
Kimia peeled the plastic from the bed. It crackled loudly.
She folded it inward so the contaminated surface touched itself.
Again.
Again.
The ritual returned automatically even while her mind wandered.
She placed it in a laundry receptacle reserved for exactly this purpose, took off her underclothes and put them into a separate one, and went to the washroom.
The shower came on.
Hot.
Too hot.
Kimia adjusted it, then stepped beneath.
Water struck her head.
The sensation became enormous.
She sat.
Not because she needed to, because standing seemed conceptually excessive.
Kimia lowered herself to the tiled floor and let the water fall over her hair, scalp, fur, and shoulders.
Her eyes closed.
The whiteblood moved inside her, or perhaps that was only heat.
Sometimes she felt present. Sometimes the water seemed to be happening to someone nearby.
She could hear it striking tile, and could feel it against her fur.
Yet there were moments when these facts failed to occupy the same person.
Kimia opened her eyes.
Her knees. Red fur darkened by water. Hands resting between them.
Those were hers.
Good.
She looked at the drain.
Water spiraled downward.
White foam, then clear.
The odor gradually weakened.
Kimia leaned her head against the wall.
For one moment she wondered whether she could sleep there.
No.
Tarkhe would eventually return. The thought carried very little alarm.
That was useful, or dangerous.
She could not decide.
She washed thoroughly.
Face. Neck. Chest. Arms. Tail. Everything.
The body cooled. The drug receded slightly.
Kimia became more coherent in increments.
Not sober.
Closer.
By the time she shut off the water, she knew what she intended to do next before doing it.
Progress.
She dried herself.
Combed her hair, then tail.
The comb snagged. She worked the knot out.
Her reflection in the mirror looked flushed. Eyes glassier than what was ideal, but recognizable.
Kimia watched herself for several seconds.
The reflection behaved.
Good.
She returned to the wardrobe and put on a fresh pair of underclothes, then looked at the kaftan.
Dark blue. Quilted. Authority hanging from a wooden hanger.