"I am very annoyed," Rakesh declared. "Extremely annoyed." It was Friday evening, and the team from Nine was gathered in the men's house. The Twos had moved to the women's house, where Jinwe was hosting.

"Annoyed about what?" Anna Goldfield obligingly asked, not looking up from her laptop. Reed Zvi had convinced her to work with him on the other trials, and the older woman was trying to figure out a way to have Rye do the work.

"The party we were all roped into attending tomorrow?" Torres offered. The governor would host a bunch of Nine bigwigs and Nine's prosecutorial team at an upscale restaurant that really should have been closed due to rationing. The associates were desperately trying to get out of it.

"No, about the fact that we gathered the material and don't even get to present it!"

Rye muttered her agreement along with everyone else. Instructions to raise the prices of something or sweeping military orders to crack down were considered to be part of the conspiracy, so at this rate, there would be nothing to present during the actual District cases. They hadn't actually started talking about that yet, as the teams from One to Four were still bogged down in the background, but Rakesh knew from his endless meetings how it would all be structured.

Most of the team did not attend the trial every day. Already, it was clear that this would be a lengthy and complicated process, closer to one of the trust-busting cases from the books than to the sort of group trials Rye was used to. Out of the first five days, she had attended three and a half. The associates rotated - usually, about half of them were present. And, most of the time, either Rye, Anna Goldfield, or Carver was missing. The same pattern held for the other teams. Since they weren't doing anything in the courtroom, their time was better spent doing research and writing.

After a 'brief' description of the creation of modern Panem, the prosecution had launched into explaining the Hunger Games, the one thread that tied the decades together. Rye pitied anyone who was trying to learn history from the trial - it was taking her lots of effort to not become confused. On Monday, they would be continuing with that, and would hopefully start mentioning the defendants.

"Less work for us?" Smith suggested optimistically.

"As if," Husk Goldfield said. "We do the work, and they steal it."

On one hand, Rye was certainly old enough to know that it was the work that mattered, and to hell with who got the credit. But on the other hand, she wanted to be recognized.

"It'll pay off eventually," Perry said with a grin. "We just have to take a leaf out of Irons' book and enjoy the delayed gratification."

Rye laughed along even though she knew full well she was just as easy a target for blackmailers.

"I have good news, by the way," Rakesh said abruptly. Before Rye or anyone else could say anything, he explained, "I'm going to have another child." He had already adopted two.

"But you're here?" Feng half-asked, half-stated.

Rakesh shrugged. "That's what video-calls are for."

"Wait, how did you have this child?" Feng asked, scratching her head.

Hudson snorted. "How do two men usually have a child?" she asked rhetorically. "Went to the Community Home and filled in some forms, I assume. Don't forget the background check - or bribe."

"Good thing I'm not important enough to be depurated," Rakesh joked. Depuration itself was a bad joke. Instead of removing the criminals from society, it removed the crimes from the criminals.

"Why are we even here?" Anna Goldfield asked after a short pause.

"Decompress after the week?" Carver offered.

"Carver, you were playing on your phone half the time," she shot back. "I was afraid you'd drain your wheelchair battery and we'd have to roll you out of the courtroom."

Rye leaned back against the chair and yawned. It was seven-thirty - maybe she should go to bed early today and get some decent sleep. Tomorrow would be that bloody dinner party. If she turned out to be horribly underdressed, she'd blame Rakesh for dragging her into the nonsense.

When Stephen walked into his office, Tiller was sitting at her desk and going through a binder. "What is that?" he asked.

Tiller shrugged. "Just some nonsense. I've built up a bit of a signature collection."

A lot of people had that. His guards focused most of their energy on procuring these signatures to sell to foreigners, though some were kept as personal souvenirs. Visitors to the courtroom were given two cards - a diagram of the courtroom and a photo spread of the defendants - and the latter, fully filled out, fetched a hefty sum. "Do you have that brochure?" Stephen asked idly.

"I do. You want to see?"

"No, no. I was merely curious. That's quite a large binder."

Tiller nodded proudly. "I've got the signatures of everyone being held in the jail, as well as some of the witnesses in Kezen's house."

"Gotten the signatures- in exchange for what?"

"Nothing. I asked, they signed."

That was a relief. Stephen didn't want to imagine the blow to the prestige of his force if his deputy was running around swapping coffee for signatures.

"Is it my shift?" Tiller asked, glancing at the clock. "Phew, still fifteen minutes. How was yours?"

"All satisfactory." Stephen sat down at his table and began to go through the stack of complaints. "How did the meeting with Admin go?"

Tiller sighed and closed her binder. Stephen could see the cardstock pages, on which the autographs would be tucked into slits in the paper. Why did anyone need these autographs? These were hardly the sort of people one would want to have a memento of. "Aircon can only be guaranteed in Courtroom 19, but they promise to cough something up by the time the other trials start." The Peacekeepers would go on in less than a month.

"That will be enough, for now." The first day in court had been utterly unbearable, but the rest of the week had been fine. It had still been deadly-dull, but the temperature had been pleasant. The defendants had said how grateful they were.

"How did the repackaging go?" Tiller asked. Stephen had spent his shift settling in a group of new arrivals. One was the infamous Komal Lophand, Snow's favourite hanging judge. An entire trial of justice system personnel was going to happen sooner rather than later, and the aptly-named Lophand was infuriated by that, especially as he would be the star defendant - Grass was already on trial as a key criminal.

The rest had been more flight-risk witnesses. Peacekeepers who were wanted in the District where they had committed their atrocities and functionaries the IDC could possibly try if it had the resources. Stephen had had to open up the larger cells and put some of the less crucial witnesses into them by fours. They were already using their exercise periods to agree on what lie to tell, so this would hardly make it worse.

"I should have done it earlier," Stephen said. "The witnesses have nothing to do all day but stare at the wall, read random books, and hope they don't get indicted. Now, at least, they can interact with each other. Better for mental health." Those deemed mentally healthy barely saw the mental health team, if ever, which made them even more isolated.

The complaints were the same as usual. Following his new method, Stephen sorted them into groups. Health, conditions, legal issues, lack of contact with family. One of the witnesses was asking for help in finding her family, which lived in a village in Two - Stephen had no idea how he was supposed to track down a village that, like as not, did not exist anymore. He wrote that down in his planner nevertheless. One day, he'd permit them to see their families. It was just too hard to arrange now.

Amusingly, another witness was complaining about having to go to school. The fact that the complaint had been dictated to a guard was proof enough that the child soldier did need to go to school. Stephen set the scrap of paper aside for shredding.

"Did you do what Dr. Mallow suggested?"

"Of course." The mental health team did tend to act as if he had all the resources in the world, but Stephen knew to defer to the experts in a field he knew relatively little about. "One even said thank-you." He had given the witnesses in the group cells playing cards and the like, so they had something to do.

"No, I meant the one in withdrawal."

Stephen winced. "Absolutely not. There is nowhere secure enough for one of the prisoners. We can administer methadone just as well here in any case." Withdrawal management was not something he had any meaningful experience with. He had borrowed some guidelines from Dr. Shentop and was reasonably sure that Lodgepole was just as good of a setting as any.

"We didn't have that back home," Tiller said, fidgeting with a piece of paper. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised that even detoxing was safer in the Capitol - or in any big city, I guess. What did they do in Thirteen?"

"Same as here," Stephen said. "There was a total ban on any kind of narcotics, the opiates were under lock and key in the hospitals, but plenty of people smuggled it in from other countries and then swapped it, most often for sexual services. So we did have to deal with addiction and withdrawals."

"Still sounds nicer than this."

After throwing out the generic complaints Stephen could do nothing about, he was left with his daily headache. He had already explained that everyone would get lawyers eventually and that everyone was eating poorly, not just them, but dealing with everyone's health problems was much more difficult. Was Crohn's a legitimate reason to ask for a special diet? Stephen set that aside to take to Dr. Shentop.

"I suppose," Stephen said absently, mentally kicking himself for putting someone with no legs on the third floor.

"Was it nice in Thirteen?"

Stephen paused and put down the complaint. Tiller had never tried to ask him anything like that before. Had Thirteen been a nice place to live? "Certainly a good deal better than what you were accustomed to," he said.

"I meant in general," she elaborated. "Was it nice?"

"If you liked routine, then yes," Stephen said, remembering the convenience of the schedules on his arm. "No unemployment, equitable distribution of resources, high degree of social mobility, universal literacy, safe working conditions. On the other hand, militarism, crushing pressure to conform in even the little things, and constant stress about if today was the day Snow got fed up with Thirteen and attacked. And after the pox struck, there were several years of panicking over if we were going to die out."

"And no sunlight."

"Once every two days for an hour, unless you were a farmer or under fourteen," Stephen said with a nod.

Tiller nodded, deep in thought. "And that surrogacy program. On the other hand, nobody died in childbirth." She picked up a pencil and tapped it against the table. "And you could go to another country."

"Only for trade or if emigrating - or if you're Dr. Aurelius." Stephen remembered when he had gotten to leave for that conference. The entirety of Thirteen had been abuzz.

"I'm just trying to decide if I would have been better off living in Thirteen," Tiller said.

"You would have. What did you think you would be when you grew up?"

Tiller shrugged. "Farmhand."

"In Thirteen, you could have studied agronomy. Or anything else at all. Or become a career soldier."

"What's agronomy?"

"The study of agriculture. You could have learned the science behind what you did every day. How much nutrients certain plants need, the like."

Tiller smiled lopsidedly and glanced at her watch. "Alright, enough daydreaming. I think I should get going."

"Enjoy your shift," Stephen said, and focused on the complaints. Tiller left the office, and he wondered what had brought the conversation on. It was good that his deputy was opening up to him. Perhaps he should tell her about his own childhood, if she was so curious about Thirteen.

Thinking about Thirteen made him think about his parents. He really needed to call them. It was around eleven in Thirteen, so Stephen reached out and dialled the number on his phone. Hopefully they had gotten their apartment by now. They had always liked the outdoors more than the underground caverns.

Rye congratulated Irons, of course. She may have been bitter at the way the trial was set up, but that opening statement had been excellent. Irons had simply nodded before scurrying off - she, too, had a party to attend.

For the prosecutors, life began when the court ended for the day. Everyone, young and old alike, just wanted to unwind. Rye preferred methods of unwinding that didn't leave her feeling dead the following morning. Barrow was just as tired as she was, Billie was still wooing her classmate with pie, Mitch was knitting clothing for Bao, and Flora was nowhere to be seen when Rye videocalled.

Like her, Rakesh, Anna Goldfield, and Carver preferred to spend their free time talking to their family. Carver and her husband were also going to be taking in a child, so she was asking everyone for tips. Unfortunately, the governor of Nine was dropping by the Capitol for a visit, and she was hosting a dinner party. The associates had gotten out of it, but not the four of them. So instead of spending her evening giving Carver parenting advice that probably did not apply to a toddler who could not run away from her even if they really wanted to, she'd be eating a fancy dinner.

At least only Rakesh had been dragged along to the opera. Hudson liked to watch operas on television - the singing was great and all, but Rye had work to do. After half-heartedly going through the documents, Rye had begun to look for what in the world she was supposed to wear.

Shoes were easy - she owned three pairs. Winter boots, running shoes, and the good shoes she wore to court. The choice was obvious. The suit was a bigger challenge. Nobody would see the state of her shirt, but was her suit good enough for this kind of formal gathering? Rye had only ever needed to toss a suit jacket and a tie over an ironed shirt, but what was good for a small-town lawyer at a New Year's party was not good for a fancy dinner with the governor, multiple senators, and who knew who else. What was appropriate? She had no idea. They had tried to poke around the Web, but the bigger problem was that none of them had anything.

"Have fun," Hudson said sarcastically.

Rye looked up from ironing her shirt. She was standing in her undershirt and pyjama bottoms in Feng's room. The associate prosecutor was downstairs with her wife, and Hudson seemed to be on her way there as well. "You, too," she replied with an equal amount of sarcasm. Hudson had her laptop under one arm.

"I'll try. Unless the Heiko Laur Show distracts me."

"Is he making a speech?"

Hudson snorted. "He's going to participate in a round-table discussion. The Minister of Foreign Affairs, getting chewed out like a middle-manager who fell out of favour. We finally get proper ministers, only to have them get insulted on national television."

Rye moved the iron up and down the shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. "Isn't there a saying about someone who grew up in the darkness not understanding what light is?"

"Maybe," Hudson said with a shrug. "I suppose having to listen to a politician you like get eviscerated is a small price to pay for having politicians you actually like."

The shirt was nice and smooth now. Rye unplugged the iron and carefully put on the shirt. "What do you think?" she asked, doing up the buttons.

"Good thing it'll be concealed by the jacket."

Rye laughed. Hudson exaggerated - a few of the seams were a bit weak, but this was her best and newest shirt. "I'll see you later," she said, stepping out of the room.

"Don't wake me up when you come back!"

"I'll try."

Hudson went downstairs, Rye - to their room. Her trousers and jacket lay on her futon, already ironed, but first was the tie. It took her a few attempts to get the length right. Once she was dressed, Rye double-checked to make sure her face was clean and ran a comb through her hair, which seemed to have more grey strands every time she looked in the mirror. It was growing out a bit, resulting in curls sticking out. Hopefully a small-town lawyer could be forgiven for that slip-up. As a child, she had worn her hair long, but had cut it in law school after realizing that bushy ponytails did not look professional and braids were too much effort.

That was as good as it got. Rye put down her comb and wondered if she needed anything else. A watch, that's what she needed. She had bought a good watch a while back on the black market. Not quite what a lawyer wore to a fancy dinner, but far too expensive to wear every day. It would have to do. Rye put it on and went back to the bathroom to study herself in the mirror. She looked like she had when going to Billie's high school graduation.

"You look good," Carver said from the doorway. She was also dressed up.

"Thanks. You, too. And you, Lope." Lope smiled slightly.

Anna Goldfield appeared soon. "Let's go," she said. They made their way downstairs, where everyone was sitting in the living room and watching Heiko Laur (Rye, as always, wondered if that was the right word to use when talking about Jinwe).

"Have fun!" Two's chief prosecutor called out.

"We'll try," Anna Goldfield said.

"Don't spill wine on the governor!" one of the associates from Two added.

"We'll try."

"No, do spill wine!"

"Only if you want us to get defunded."

It was still light outside, but the sun was beginning to set. The three prosecutors got a taxi to take them to the right place, arriving right on time. Perry would have approved. And before they could say a word, the restaurant door opened. "Are you-" a well-dressed person began to ask before being cut off by Goldfield.

"Governor's party, yes."

"Come on in, then."

They walked in through the side entrance - the front had been destroyed in the shelling and was completely boarded up. The person led them to a room where more well-dressed people were standing around and talking. Rye took stock of who was talking to whom and how well they were dressed. The governor had clearly not arrived yet, though that much was evident from Rithvik's absence.

"Good day," a middle-aged bald man said to Goldfield. The two shook hands, the man then offering his hand to Rye and Carver in order of seniority. Lope was ignored. "I believe you are the prosecutors?"

"Some of them, at least," Goldfield said. "Our chief has not arrived yet, of course, and the rest of the team is too busy, unfortunately."

"Too busy - on a Saturday night?" He was sincerely incredulous.

Goldfield nodded. "Prosecuting at the trial of the century is a daunting task."

After some more chitchat, the three prosecutors went their own separate ways to mingle. They needed to get a feel for the situation and see what Nine thought of it all. Before Rye could start talking to the governor's aide, a server came up to her. "Wine?" she offered.

"Yes, thank you."

"White or red?"

"White."

That should have been it, but the server then listed two names Rye did not catch. She kicked herself for thinking this would be like back home. Of course they had more types than 'white' and 'red' here! "I'll take the drier one," she said, as if she had always been able to pick.

"Excellent choice," the server said. Rye suspected that she would have said that no matter what Rye had chosen.

The server went to Carver next. Carver found a different way out. "I'll take the latter," she said.

"And your helper?" the server asked Carver, once again ignoring Lope.

Carver turned sideways. "What do you want?" she asked somewhat ostentatiously - it annoyed her when people treated Lope like a piece of furniture.

"Water. I can't drink alcohol when I'm at work."

"I will bring a glass."

The aide then launched into a complaint about how the trial was taking too long. "What will the governor tell her electors? The people want justice, not for the criminals to sit around eating our budget money."

"If they want justice," Rye said, taking a sip of the excellent wine - where had it come from? - "they will have to be patient. True justice is not when the defendants are marched out, recite a confession from a sheet of paper, and are executed within the day."

The aide nodded impatiently. "I know that. But it is already June. The surrender was half a year ago. Would it not be possible to go just a little bit faster?"

"No," Rye said simply. "Either we get enough time to do all the research, or we do not and the trial suffers from it."

That conversation repeated itself with minor variations at least five times before the governor finally showed up, Rakesh in tow. Others implied that they weren't too happy about Depuration and transitional justice in general. For District upper classes, it had been all too easy to consider the Games something that happened to other people's children, and with that out of the way, the status quo had been more than good for them.

The newspapers here did complain about slowness, but not as much. The Capitol and Nine had different priorities. Here, the average person wanted the twenty-four to be hanged as soon as possible and to be done with the whole affair. Back home, people were angrier. They were glad that the process was so public.

It was soon time for dinner. Rye could tell from the seating that they were considered important guests. The table was U-shaped, with the governor sitting at the head, and the four prosecutors were not too far down one of the prongs. The seating was assigned, and a chair was already missing where Carver would be. Rye winced when she saw the table closer up.

Her first thought was that she hadn't known so many different types of utensils existed. Then, she was irritated that she was eating so well when most people in Nine were queueing for rationed potatoes and urban dwellers had turned every patch of land into a garden. And then, Rye wondered with which spoon she was supposed to eat the bowl of soup in front of her.

Rye glanced at Goldfield, but she also seemed taken aback. Lope glanced at Carver, who just shrugged. She, at least, wouldn't be expected to use two different spoons. Carver had the same wineglass as everyone else, but she also had a metal straw, and four identical spoons.

"Forgive me," Rakesh said to their neighbour, a senator, "but which spoon do I use?" Rye felt gratitude towards her boss.

The senator quickly explained the setup in an indulgent tone. "I suppose you haven't seen anything of the sort before, being from small towns," he said.

Goldfield was actually from Centre but said nothing. The senator had spent forty years in government and it would not do to remind him that the sort of lawyers to be invited to fancy parties tended to be the sort who were currently out of work pending Depuration.

"Forgive us country bumpkins our bad manners," Rakesh said with a smile, deliberately letting his native accent shine through a bit.

"No problem," the senator said.

The soup was great. That did not help Rye's mood. On the plus side, her neighbour was an assistant to the Minister of Health who had spent ten years in Thirteen before coming home to Nine and then being sent here. She had some legal training and could understand the prosecution's plight.

"I can't imagine going through all those archives," the assistant, whose name was Vijenthira, said as she scraped at her empty bowl. She had clearly gotten a crash course in fine dining but still ate like in Thirteen - quickly and efficiently, not letting chitchat distract her from finishing her meal. "It's like you're trying to write a history book about the past seventy-five years, but you only have primary sources."

That was a good way to put it. "At least we have them," Rye said optimistically. Next to her, Rakesh was being grilled over the budget. "Jessica Chime's a lifesaver. She agreed to help out in the presidential archives almost immediately, which drew most of them back. And we also have Snow's photographer and social media expert - he's helped us with so much photographic evidence."

"I must say, I didn't expect them to be so cooperative," Vijenthira said as the next course was brought out. It was a generous piece of fish with rice, vegetables, and sauce. Rye looked around to make sure she was using the right utensils before digging in.

"I heard someone quip that the archivists would have sooner disemboweled themselves than destroy the material," Rye replied, eating a small piece of fish. She realized she was holding the fork differently from everyone else but had no idea how to mimic her neighbours' grip..

Vijenthira nodded. Her own portion was half-gone already, though she was mostly ignoring the different wines that were served with each course. Lope was getting what appeared to be flavoured water instead. Rye had never been one to think seriously about her position in society, but just outside, the vast majority of people hadn't seen any meat or fish in over half a year. There was an irony to how District people were feasting in the hungry Capitol, but Nine was struggling as well.

"I thought the NCIA would have destroyed incriminating material, at least," Vijenthira said, wiping the sauce off her plate with a small piece of bread.

"They didn't realize such things were incriminating," Rye replied. "They were under the impression that kidnapping people and murdering them discreetly is how everyone handles internal security." Talvian's interrogations were an insight into the twisted psychology of the NCIA. Krechet's were an insight into how the NCIA had twisted people for its purposes.

Vijenthira chuckled. "They must have been surprised by us."

"Oh, they were."

After the fish was salad, which was followed by dessert. At last, it was over. Everyone said their goodbyes and went outside, where taxis and personal automobiles were waiting. The prosecutors and Lope piled into their taxi and they were off. "Well," Rakesh said. "The dinner was good, at least."

"Where did they even get all that wine?" Goldfield wondered. "All their profits must go to bribes to keep the MPs away."

"I don't think so," Rye said. "All they have to do is wine and dine the generals regularly, and then no force in the world will make them close."

"That sounds like our generals," Carver said.

The taxi bounced over a few potholes as it rode through the night. Rye stared out the window, looking forward to getting some proper sleep for once.

Why was it so hard to stop eating? Miroslav sat on his bed, head in his hands, and wished he hadn't promised to talk to Rody tonight. He didn't want to talk to his wife. He felt disgusting and useless. But he'd have felt even worse if he had disappointed Rody again, so he sat there, feeling like he was going to throw up, and waited for her to call.

The laptop chimed. Miroslav hurried to accept the call, making sure that he couldn't see his own image in the corner. He didn't want to look at himself.

"Hey," Rody said. She sounded tired but looked great. "Is something wrong?"

He must have looked as bad as he felt. "I'd rather not talk about it."

Rody sighed. "Miroslav-"

"I don't want you to feel like my therapist."

"So not work, then," Rody said.

Miroslav nodded. "Not feeling too well. Shouldn't have gone to that soup stall."

"How's Biljana?"

That was easier to talk about. Their daughter was doing well, and looking forward to being done with school, at least for the year. After that, of course, would be the usual helping out at harvest-time. Before, the older kids had liked it because it gave them the chance to go outside. Now, they would probably like it because they got paid. The switchover to paid work had gone smoothly, most likely because basic necessities were rationed and nobody had found themselves suddenly having to worry about buying food.

"She's got exams soon, so she's stressed. She also claims she befriended a new girl in her class, but I am certain it's more than that." Biljana had gone on for half an hour about how amazing Chelsea was. Had he sounded as obsessed about his teenage crushes? Probably.

Rody smiled. "What's the girl like?"

"She's from a destroyed village in Seven, her name is Chelsea Peng, and if you listen to Biljana, she's the greatest person in the world," Miroslav said wryly. Talking about that raised his spirits slightly, but he still felt sick to his stomach, as if he had swallowed a boulder. He knew logically that just wanting really hard couldn't cure anything, but that didn't stop him from trying. "When are you coming home?"

"When are you coming home?"

Good rebuttal. Miroslav chuckled before replying. "I'm signed up until the end of this trial. You can technically leave whenever you want. Do you have any idea when you'll be able to come back?"

"On the thirty-second of Never, that's when," Rody snarked. "We're understaffed."

The entire country was understaffed. "At this rate, by the time we get back, Biljana will have married that Chelsea and adopted ten orphans."

"Don't speak like that," Rody said with a mock-shudder. "I don't want to think about our little girl growing up."

"How's work?" Miroslav asked obligingly. He was just as unsettled by the idea. Was Biljana really old enough to be dating? It seemed like yesterday she had been placed into their hands for the first time, looking so unlike both of them, they had been unable to hold back laughter.

Rody shrugged. "Routine. I'm picking up some shifts at the civilian hospital now that the base is being downsized. We got a shipment of non-slip socks - the patients were very happy."

"That's nice. I'm actually working less outside the jail than before - they want me to be available for the key criminals as often as possible." It had been arranged that on court days when Mallow was in the courtroom, he'd be at the juvenile centre. "Do you think you could send me some of those socks?" he asked jokingly. "We've been getting some complaints that the floors of the cells are too slippery to walk around in normal socks if you have balance issues."

"Can't they wear shoes?"

"And track dirt from outside all over their cells?"

Rody spread her hands. "I don't think there's any socks to spare. Unless you get them on the black market."

Black-market non-slip socks. No wonder the entire world was laughing at them. "I think we'll be alright," Miroslav said. "We've got enough issues with supplying everyone with normal clothing. What do your patients wear?"

"Either trackies or trousers and shirts - some bring their own, and we encourage donations." She winced suddenly.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, just cramps."

"Wish I could be with you," Miroslav sighed. It pained him to see Rody clearly not feeling well, and him not able to help her.

Rody nodded, reaching for a bottle of pills. "Are you doing anything interesting right now?" She washed a pill down with water from a cup and put the bottle back.

Kirji was more interested in having him help her with the crossword, Dijksterhuis was furious at the prosecution over their perceived unfairness, and Pollman had just wanted to tell Miroslav funny stories about his kids. "Talking to the key criminals," he said vaguely.

"Come on, I know there's no confidentiality going on there," Rody wheedled.

"For now, there is," Miroslav stubbornly insisted. There were enough leaks of the defendants' mental states thanks to the guards - newspapers came out with headlines such as 'DOVEK REJECTS ALL ACCUSATIONS' and wrote in detail about the state of everyone's health. It was clear from the coverage who was the most popular with the crowd. "I don't ask you about your patients."

Rody shook her head. "Everyone already knows everything about them. It's like they're celebrities! But then again, I suppose that nobody could hyperfocus like that on someone they actually respect."

That was a good point. There were plenty of articles about various Rebels, but those were generally concise and respectful, not wild speculation. Perhaps the nation just needed to laugh at its former oppressors. "You'll find out when the book is done," Miroslav said with a smile. "You and Biljana will be my first readers."

"Are you ever going to get the draft done?"

Miroslav winced. Good point. His draft consisted of random diary entries and snippets of recorded dialogue he had set aside. "Now that I'm in the jail more often, why not?" he said hopefully.

"I look forward to it," Rody said sincerely.

Miroslav, too, looked forward to it being done. "Now that gives me motivation to actually do some work tonight," he said with a smile. Rody laughed.