The clinic doors sealed behind Mara Venn with a soft hydraulic sigh, trapping the smell of antiseptic on her clothes.
“Ma’am, please keep moving,” said the attendant behind her.
Mara was already moving. She crossed the white lobby in three strides, her shoes skidding on the polished floor, while the girl ahead of her walked beneath the blue Continuity emblem as if she had all the time in the world. Twelve years old. Narrow shoulders. Copper-brown braid. Yellow raincoat with one silver button missing at the throat.