The delivery vehicle smelled like recycled foam and someone else's breakfast, and Ysolde Maren sat in the back of it with her arms crossed and her jaw set and her eyes doing what eyes do when a person is assembling a counterargument they're not quite ready to deploy yet.
I gave her four minutes. Then I opened the notepad to the page with the list.
She read it twice. I watched her finger stop at her own name, hover, move on. She didn't say anything for the length of two city blocks. The vehicle's shocks took a seam in the maintenance road and she gripped the cargo strapping without looking at it.
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