Beth Wells looked up from her notes when the man stumbled through the door. His face was gray, skin stretched tight over his bones. He'd survived the plague, but barely. She set down her pen and waited. Survivors sometimes had information that mattered more than they knew. The man leaned against the doorframe and spoke in a rasp. Someone was stopping the cure, he said. The old medical hall with the round doctor statue out front, the one that used to treat the poor for free. It had been turned into a storage house two months before the plague hit. Now supplies went in but nothing came out, not to the settlements that needed them most. Beth's hand moved to her belly, then to the vial of plant extract on her desk. She had two cases of slowed progression and no way to test more people. The man's hollow eyes met hers. The hall kept receiving shipments of medicine from the capital, he said, but the sick never saw any of it. Beth stood and reached for her coat. If someone was blocking distribution, her compound would never reach anyone who needed it. She had to see that building for herself.