Rumi crouched beside the three waiting bundles of archive plates, holding her tail out of the dust while a woman tried to explain which of the records belonged with her family.
"This wrapper has our old address," the woman said, touching its edge, "I don't know everything inside it."
"You don't have to open it here."
"The witness hall, then."
Rumi marked the first bundle with a short chalk stroke, looking toward the other two family representatives before choosing either road.
The man with a nail tucked through his cuff wanted his group's plates kept near the northern heart, where his relatives were helping the repair crews.
The third family had been sleeping beside the eastern shelter depot.
"We'll wait there," their young woman said, gathering a coil of dyed thread from beside the bundle, "there are people who can recognize the wrappers with us."
Farther inside the archive, unopened records continued beyond the reach of the entrance lamps.
