M. Koril
Day 195

We are being held at Earth Spacedock. I am so tired of sickbay. I am tired of Federation medical officers poking and prodding and trying to be coy. I am tired of replicated Earth food and cold air. I finally convinced someone to bring me something warmer to wear, and they provided me with this sleek, black, vaguely sinister tunic. They claimed that it was designed by their resident tailor Ghemik Telur, a Cardassian. I loathe his sense of style and humor, clearly his time living here has twisted him. At least the tunic keeps me warm.

Nurse Bennet continues to greet me every morning with a maddeningly persistent optimism. She is convinced that other escape pods must have made it, and that Starfleet will find them, and she will not let the matter drop. It has been nearly seven weeks since Tovan and I were snatched out of the cold emptiness of space. If there were other survivors, they could not likely have survived.

Somehow I find that I can’t tell this woman the horror of the one chance they had survived, to have been captured by the Tal Shiar still patrolling the area. Either way, I mourn them.