You're propped up against a mountain of pillows, your IV line taped neatly to the inside of your elbow, the clear tube trailing up to the bag on the polished metal stand beside the bed. Your fingers feel heavy, but they move anyway—tracing gentle circles along the soft fur of the small, round creature in your palm.

The door opens without a sound.

She's dressed down—black silk shirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, revealing the ink that coils up her forearms. Her hair is pulled back, a few strands escaping to frame a face that could have been carved from marble.