The evolution panel had been open since the matriarch left the platform, and Vell had read it four times without finding a better number. Forty-three percent meant Wren survived a weighted coin toss, which was not a figure he could hand a partner as a plan.
Yenna crouched at the cat's other side with the field wrap spread across her knee, working blood out of the fur above the scar. She had not asked what the panel said, because she had read the answer off his face while he pretended to check it.
"Say the number out loud," she said, folding the wrap without looking up from her hands, "so nobody in this camp gets to claim later that they misheard it."
"Forty-three," Vell answered, turning the panel so the light fell across the trench stone between them.
