By the time she hears about Farris Fields, the door to her room is no longer locked at night and her medication has been dialed back to a level that doesn't steal away hours of lucidity at a time.
Two more colonies have also been taken.
She mourns for her husband all over again, but now has reason to keep her melt-down to herself. She sobs under her covers at night and tells the doctors she's just sad because she feels as if she's missing life.
They take that to be a good sign.
She desperately tries to find a plan of action. Something that she can control, something she can pin down in this universe to make it, and herself real. The day-to-day goals (small as they were) of surviving, of reading, of trying to remember details of her past life on the Citadel, are gone. The vast echoing of the space they'd puffed up to fill is now almost unbearable.
She does not belong here.
She is nothing here.
There is no reason to be.
…She has to find one.
The paperwork to give her an identity was filed long ago. The paperwork to release her doesn't take as long and comes with an agreement to return for regular sessions. A job at a local store, three sets of clothing, and a small government stipend is her reward for her progress over the past year.
It's a small stipend. She uses every trick she ever heard of to save up money and eventually steals, begs, and borrows in an attempt to get enough in her accounts.
By the time she has enough credits to book passage to the Citadel, Horizon is already gone.
