After the arena, every unfamiliar touch is an attack my body expects me to fend off, no matter what my condition. But I restrain myself from becoming a thrashing animal, subduing the reaction to a flinch. I'm not so badly off that I can't walk by myself, but I let him lead me to the clinic anyways. He doesn't look like a doctor, and it's that fact that allows me to relax, stupidly enough. I remind myself that no one is ever safe.

The silence of the empty clinic bothers me and soothes at the same time. I keep expecting the noise of gunfire to punctuate the stillness, and my agitation comes from knowing it can't last. I distract myself with the sights around me, debating the merits of starting a conversation. I open my mouth one or two times, but there's nothing to say. Instead I keep my eyes trained on him, never leaving his face.