Kaine didn't sleep that night.
Couldn't sleep. Couldn't achieve the void-state that passed for rest. Her consciousness churned with statistics and probabilities and futures that all ended the same way.
Four percent survival rate. Seven percent for broader category. Zero percent for her specific age group.
Numbers that said she was already dead. Already ghost. Already progression toward inevitable self-termination.
Her mother stayed present through the dark hours. Didn't try to fix anything. Didn't offer false comfort. Just remained. Just loved. Just held space for Kaine's processing.
By morning—metaphorical morning in consciousness-space—Kaine had achieved something approaching clarity. Not peace. Not acceptance. But clarity about what questions needed answering.
