There it was.

“But?”

“Wizh support.”

Kimia looked toward Tarkhe.

“Wizh adequate sleep. Reduced substance use. Continued medical observation. And if perceptual symptoms worsen, you need to say so.”

Kimia stared at her hands.

The tiny claw nick remained.

Almost healed.

“So I'm not losing my mind.”

The neurologist considered.

“Zhat is not a useful medical phrase.”

“Humor me.”

He thought.

“No.”

Kimia looked up.

“No?”

“I don't zhink zhe evidence today supports zhat conclusion.”

Something inside her released.

Not entirely.

Enough.

The neurologist continued.

“Zhat does not mean everyzhing is fine.”

“I know.”

“It means several systems are functioning better zhan your fear tells you zhey are.”

Kimia sat with that.

Her fear had become evidence to itself.

Phantasm. The Akalosi philosopher returned. Fear becoming architecture. Interpretation becoming world.

The neurologist began packing the cards.

Kimia watched the black outlines disappear into their case.

Key. Lantern. Shell. Pulley.

Objects with names.

Things that were what they were.

She felt unexpectedly grateful for them.

The doctor closed one case.

“I would like to repeat parts of zhis when you return from zhe Passage.”

Kimia frowned.

“Again?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because today's results are contaminated by recent substances, medication changes, disrupted sleep, and anxiety.”

“Contaminated.”

“Confounded, if you prefer.”

“I don't.”

“Neizher changes zhe meaning.”

Kimia sighed.

“Fine.”

Tarkhe looked pleased again.

Kimia pointed at him.

“Stop.”

“I said nozhing.”

“You don't have to.”

The neurologist stood.

Kimia followed.

This time standing felt ordinary.

No floor shift. No rush. Just legs.

The doctor offered one hand.

Kimia took it.

“Zhank you, Your Grace.”

“For telling me I'm mostly sane?”

“For cooperating.”

“Zhat was less exciting.”

“Yes.”

He smiled.

Honest brown eyes. 

Sad tree.

Kimia decided she liked him.

Not enough to say so.

The specialist gathered his equipment.

Tarkhe spoke quietly with him near the door.

Kimia could hear pieces.

Repeat assessment. Travel. Medication. Observation.

Nothing catastrophic.

The indrel remained beside her.

Click.

Kimia looked at it.

“Mostly fit.”

The soldier said nothing.

“Could be worse.”

Click.

Kimia interpreted this as agreement.

The neurologist eventually departed.

Tarkhe remained.

Kimia looked at him.

“Well?”

“I agree.”

“Wizh what?”

“Mostly fit.”

She stared.

“You are bozh fuckers.”

“Yes.”

Kimia walked toward the window.

Afternoon had begun slipping toward evening.

The whole examination already felt unreal.

Cards. Questions. Rulers. Melting ceilings. Five words. Copper.

The ruler measuring an illusion.

She had passed some things.

Failed others.

Or perhaps passing and failing were not the categories.

Patterns.

The specialist had said patterns.

Kimia placed both hands against the window ledge.

The glass reflected her faintly.

She saw the face.

Dark kaftan. Red fur. Eyes.

Nothing moved.

She watched for several seconds, then stopped herself.

No need.

Not every reflection required verification.

That thought felt important.

Kimia turned away.

Tarkhe was still there.

“What now?” he asked.

Kimia thought.

The old answer would have been whiteblood.

Kilcane. Vehm. Something.

The new answer came slower.

“Food.”

Tarkhe nodded.

“Good.”

Kimia glared, but the fact that lunch wasn't really substantial crossed her mind, and thus had to do something about that. 

He smiled very slightly.

Then they left together, the indrel following behind.

Kimia remained mostly fit.

For the moment, mostly was enough, and for the remainder of the day, very little happened.