The coffee tasted like ash.

Rebecca sat across from you at the tiny table in the field lab’s break room, her knees pulled up, lab coat still smeared with dried blood that didn’t belong to either of you. Her hair was tied back in a loose bun, frizzed from hours of heat and stress.

You stirred your mug, not drinking.

“We saved three,” she said, more to herself than to you.

You nodded.

“Three out of seventeen.”

You didn’t answer. Neither did she.

There was a clock on the wall ticking too loudly. You wished it would stop.

Rebecca finally looked up. Her eyes were tired — but not defeated. Never defeated.

“Do you ever feel like we’re just… holding pieces together?” she asked. “Like we’re pretending this is normal, but it’s just barely keeping us upright?”