Kael
I was given a brush.
It had no special properties.
The handle was worn smooth, several bristles bent the wrong way, and the storekeeper wanted it back when I finished.
"These marks," he said, pointing to a row of sound boards in the clean recovery yard. "Clear the mud so we can read the numbers."
I looked toward the grove.
"I helped stop the source yesterday."
"Then you'll recognize the importance of reading the right number."
He left me with the brush.
There was very little respect for recent achievement in the recovery yard.
I found that more comfortable than I expected.
The morning medical checks had allowed me out of the observation section. The infection restrictions were lifted for the cleared areas, with follow-up examinations still required.
My ordinary limits remained.
Short work periods. No heavy lifting. Report the core ache instead of waiting until it became impossible to hide.
The brush fit comfortably in my right hand.
I began.
