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A sound from a world she hadn’t seen in three years and was trying to carry home in her throat. She crossed her legs, clamping down on the offending limb with the other ankle. “Involuntary neurological event,” she muttered. “Irrelevant.” The kind that a woman who’d lost her mate and mastered her grief and armored herself in discipline could not fully contain when the planet’s biology declared open season on every defense she’d built. It’s shutting down to heal.” “Will it recover?” “Reptilian regenerative capacity at this organism’s mass?