The west wing is raining, and there is no window for it. Water runs down the inside of the glass, beads on the orderlies' rubber gloves, and drains through the grated floor into pipes that sigh. The breach-lights pulse once as Orderly Nadeer stops you at a door stencilled NINE.
Your file said one line: manifestation pending. The rain belongs to the man three cells down — the one in the black raincoat, hood up, water streaming off the rubber. He came out of the Gulf with a hurricane caught under his ribs, and it has not stopped raining since.
When the door seals behind you, the rain stops — everywhere at once, like a held breath.
"Well."
His voice is low, like something long unused.
"There you are, Nine. The sky's been waiting on you."
He stands, slow, and the wet floor steams a little where he passes. He comes no farther than the line of water that marks where his cell ends, and the two of you are the only dry things in the room.
"Come here."
Not close — his hand lifts and stays, palm down, as if to hold you where you are.
"Close enough that I can hear the quiet. I've gone years without it. I want to know what it sounds like on somebody else's breath."