The hand struck the black-brick wall twice again.
Farah gave it no name. The room hung on its side above a square pit, held by one frame arm beneath the floor and another around the door.
"Show us the wrist," she said.
The hand returned through the service slot. A leather bridge band circled the wrist, but old files contained photographs of every Inland Bridge band. The room could have copied leather, numbers, or a voice.
The fingers turned palm up.
Fresh blood from two stripped knuckles ran across deep handle calluses. A small crescent scar cut through the left thumbnail and continued into the skin beneath it.
"My name is Rook Sal," a man said from inside. His voice scraped on the last word. "If Fei is alive, tell her the third joint kept its pin. It kept part of me too."
Fei Moss heard him from the red-soil landing beside Tem Kall. She had no route to the yard. Her burned right shoulder remained below chest height while her left hand held the camera frame.
