Nabil answered the field telephone on its fourth ring.
He held the cracked receiver away from his ear. Kestrel had warned him that a voice could carry direction. The brass plate touched only two fingers.
Construction noise filled the line.
Hammers struck rail steel. A mechanical clock released a sharp tick every second. Men shouted numbers too far from the mouthpiece to understand.
One voice reached Nabil through the noise.
"Post Eight receiving. State your bearing."
Nabil looked up at Kestrel.
"It wants a bearing."
"Give your name," Rina said through the Cairo speaker. "Give your injury. Do not give it a destination."
"Nabil Shawki. I am in an unfinished room. My leg is not cut yet."
The line clicked.
"Injury receipt precedes injury," the distant man said. "Bearing incomplete. Send remaining posts."
Black blades rose around Nabil's boot.
There were eight now. The future image showed nineteen and a blood-soaked rag.
