She pulls a dead leaf from the feverfew and rolls it between finger and thumb until it breaks apart.
“The usual machinery.”
My stomach turns once. I keep my face still.
“And permanent tattoos?”
Her fingers stop moving.
“Different,” she says. “Long-term subjects. Specialized programs. Wolves they expected to keep.”
The crushed leaf dusts her palm green.
“Wolves they wanted identifiable even if the paperwork disappeared.”
I look down at her hand. At the smear of green worked into the lines of her skin.
“Why would paperwork disappear?”
Arden’s mouth twists.
“Because paperwork is evidence.”
I look at the five digits behind my eyes. Straight lines. Meant to be read fast.
“Do you recognize the number?”
“No.”
The answer is immediate.
My hands tighten on the bag strap. I have no right to expect more. Arden owes me nothing. The fact that I want a name does not make one appear.
“But I recognize the range,” she says.
I look back at her.
“Thirty-series came up in research conversations. Not often. Never where captives were supposed to hear.” She rubs at a smear of dirt on her thumb. It does not come off. “Suppression. Frequency work. Instability protocols. I didn’t have enough to piece it together.”
“Frequency work?”
“I don’t know what it means. I heard the word. I remembered it because they hated saying it near us. Some words made staff look at doors before they spoke.”
“Was there a doctor attached to it?” I ask.
Arden goes still.
“Fell,” she says.
The name barely reaches me.
I wait.
“Dr. Fell. I heard staff say the name when they spoke about the thirty series.” Arden’s eyes drop to the feverfew between us. “Not the way people talk about someone they like. Not even the way they talk about someone they fear.”
“How, then?”
“Carefully.”
