"We are," Mikhailis breathed back, more to himself than to the script. We are behaving. See? Look at us behave.
He stared at the Anchor until his eyes watered, then counted blinks between inhale and exhale so his body would stop choosing on its own. The timing became a comfort, the way marching used to be on cold mornings before he learned to prefer out-of-step.
The formation performed a little miracle of patience. Ankles rolled and set. Backs kept their little curves. Bow hands stayed relaxed, fingers warmed against palm leather to keep sensation. No one wanted to be the noise. No one wanted to be remembered by a room for being memorable.
