Rafferty stared at the snail. The snail stared back, expectantly.

It was her third day in the Abbey's convalescence room, and there were five snails roaming her body, each with a number etched on its shell. This one was number 37.

The snail slid further up her wrist, and began to open and close its mouth.

Gus said they used to be called glass snails. Apart from certain human females, they were the only known creatures that could successfully interact with the Blue. When properly cultured, the snails could speed the healing process. Rafferty's injuries would keep her out of action for a matter of days, rather than weeks.

Of course, it had felt like she was being lightly tickled all day, for the last three days, and that had done something to her mood. To say nothing of the trails of slime.

Rafferty poked a piece of lettuce toward number 37, which grabbed the leaf, and shuffled it quickly into its mouth. Feeding the snails, she had been informed, was her responsibility.

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Not that there was much else to do, other than, you know, convalesce. She had asked them to bring her phonograph from her room, but her request had been denied.

Because it would bother the snails.

The only thing there was to do, it seemed, was to play host to an unfortunately steady stream of visitors.

Trevor had already finished recalibrating all of her gear, and seen to his motorcycle, and had seemingly shifted his duties to hovering over Rafferty, as if constant hectoring might speed up the snail-induced healing. Even when he left the room, she was pretty sure he was skulking in the hallway. She could feel his anxious energy seeping through the walls.

Cody had also been around a lot, doting on her and asking how she could help, but Rafferty thought that had as much to do with the presence of Trevor and his pretty face as it did with her hall mate's general niceness.

Sheridan had come by to chastise her for forgetting about something as important as rivet placement, and urge her to pay more attention in Church. She had also left stacks of notes from meetings Rafferty missed. Rafferty tried to tell herself that Sheridan actually thought she was doing something nice.

Blaspheme informed her that she was famous now. Rafferty had rolled her eyes, and brushed her off.

"You'll see," said Blaspheme just before she left, stopping in the doorway to tell Rafferty to "enjoy your slime time."

Her friend may have been right. A lot of girls, particularly the younger ones, came by the room. Some asked her how she was doing. Others wanted to hear the story. More than a few just peered at her from the hallway before Trevor ran them off. Most of them came in groups, and left loudly whispering to each other about her.

Apparently, if you took down a Class Four by yourself, people were curious.

Rafferty still hadn't heard from any of the higher ups, and she wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

Rafferty looked down at her knuckles. Number 37 was perched there, doing that thing with its mouth again.

Greedy little prick.