Here's Arilanna Tayrey, new arrival, bundle of trauma. She glances at the pamphlet and narrows her eyes, because to her it means she's letting her composure slip. What was it, the skittish hypervigilance? That little tremor in her hands? She flattens them against her sides, missing the fact that the doctor was handing the papers out to all manner of people. Nothing personal, Tayrey. Probably.

'Thank you, but I haven't any need of such services,' she says, all military pride with just a touch of defensiveness. Yes, she's damaged, but she can repair it herself.'My dreams are uninteresting.' Not pleasant. But not surprising in any way, she thinks.