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kept in the low cot bed in the infirmary for nearly a week. She was, for the most part, left alone to recover from her near-fatal bout of hypothermia — the result of a single night spent in the cell. Every so often a man came into the room to fetch something from one of the cabinets. He was young, with wavy blond hair and dark circles beneath his weird, staring eyes. He checked Kirra over twice a day, monitored her breathing, her heart rate, her temperature, and then left her alone. He never looked her directly in the face and never said anything to her, his eyes strangely empty and his face disturbingly soulless.
    Kirra knew he was a doctor, or had at least some training, because one day two injured and bleeding men had stumbled into the room, and he had treated them both without a moment’s hesitation and prescribed medicine from a cabinet high up on the wall.
    Every day Kirra told herself to expect Latham, an event she regarded with an acute sense of terror. She wondered anxiously how he might force her to cooperate with deciphering the code, and what he wanted it for. But he never showed up.
    The person Kirra saw most often was the woman. Always in her jacket, the precise colour of blood, she came with plates of food and mugs of tea and assisted Kirra in whatever way she could. She always seemed nervous and never stayed very long, but Kirra looked forward to her visits as much as she did her cooking. She guessed the woman made the meals herself, because whenever Kirra managed to get through one she seemed almost flattered. For breakfast, she brought bowls of cereal and toast, sometimes even eggs, and, once, pancakes. For lunch, she made thick sandwiches packed with chicken and cheese. Dinners were by far the best. She made soup and spaghetti dishes, roasts and vegetables, rice and chunky stews, all of it warm, comforting and delicious.
    After almost a week of immobility in the infirmary, Kirra began to feel restless. She had recovered to an extent and regained the full use of her limbs, but tried to hide it from the woman and the doctor for fear they might return her to the cell if they knew she was well enough. The idea of going back there frightened her immeasurably, and she wasn’t sure she would survive the cold for another night.
    Her efforts were all in vain, however, because one day, after the doctor had completed his second examination, another man barged through the door, grabbed Kirra out of bed and set her on her feet. He steered her out of theroom, stopping only to grab a large paper bag from the top shelf of a cabinet, and forced her down the corridor.
    Kirra did her best to catch quick glimpses into the other rooms in the hangar. Many were computer labs, some were storage rooms, and others were filled with equipment in black and silver cases. Occasionally she passed a room with a couch, a rug or a mirror; simple items that tried and failed to lend the hangar a sense of domesticity. One room, its door only slightly ajar, was painted a sickly shade of violet. Frowning, Kirra twisted back to get a better look, but was wrenched onward.
    Finally, they came to a door she recognised. The man typed the code into the keypad on the wall, lifted the bolt and pushed Kirra back into her cell. He tossed the paper bag in after her and slammed the door shut.
    Kirra was pleased to note that the broken pane in the window had been removed, a new one in its place. In the corner now lay several blankets, for which Kirra was grateful, though she couldn’t help thinking a mattress wouldn’t have gone astray. She cautiously opened the bag the man had thrown onto the cement, and expelled a sigh of relief as she pulled out two scuffed boots, a pair of faded jeans and a dark fleecy jumper. All the clothes looked and felt as though they’d been worn before. Kirra wondered if they belonged to the woman in the red jacket. The jeans were a bit too long, and the jumper very tatty, but they were warm and soft and