She saw it twice before she wrote it down.
The first time was during the Thursday session, when he was helping one of the younger swimmers adjust a kickboard position. He reached upward, his right arm extending to take the board from the rack, and then, for a fraction of a second, he did not complete the motion. He paused, mid-reach, and then continued, retrieved the board, handed it to the swimmer, said something that made the swimmer nod and return to the water.
She had been photographing the far end of the pool. She caught the pause in her peripheral vision. She noted it, without doing anything about it, because she had learned that initial observations needed to accumulate before they were useful.
The second time was during the cool-down, when he was demonstrating a stretch to one of the relay swimmers. He extended his right arm behind his head and then stopped, the extension incomplete, and continued the demonstration with the left side.
She wrote it down when she got home. Not in the session notes. In the back section. Shoulder, right. Two incidents, same session. Not dramatic. Controlled. He knew it was happening.
She thought about this. She thought about the weight of the season on a specific joint, on the particular muscles that drove competitive swimming, on what it meant to be the person responsible for the whole team's performance while managing something you were not disclosing.
She did not ask him about it that session. She did not ask him about it Friday. She waited, because the information needed context, and because asking too early would produce a denial and a closed door and the end of the conversation.
She asked on Tuesday, three days after the second incident.
She had arrived at the 5 AM session with the better coffee. She placed his cup on the railing. He came out of the water at six and picked it up and she said, without preamble, without framing it as a journalist's question: "Your shoulder."
He looked at her. He did not say no immediately, which was itself information.
"It's been happening for a few weeks," she said. "I've been watching."
The pause was careful. Not constructed, she thought, but actual: someone deciding in real time how much to give.
"It's manageable," he said.
"Is it being treated?"
"No."
"Are you going to treat it?"
"After the season."
She looked at him. She thought about the meet that was two weeks away and the nationals at the end of the season and the particular arithmetic of an injury that was manageable until it wasn't. She thought about the position she was in: a journalist who was also someone who had been bringing coffee to this pool for six weeks and had a hypothesis about who she had been talking to on a forum for thirteen months, and who was now standing with information that was simultaneously personal and potentially a story and she did not know how to hold both of those things at the same time.
"I won't write about it," she said.
He looked at her. She could not fully read the look, but it had a quality she had not seen from him before: something between surprise and the specific state of being seen in a way you had not anticipated.
"You don't have to make that commitment," he said.
"I'm making it anyway."
"Why."
She thought about this. She had several answers that were true and one that was most true. She gave him the most true one: "Because it's not the story. The story is something else, and the shoulder is part of your life and not mine to tell."
He was quiet for long enough that the morning session was beginning to fill up, team members arriving in ones and twos, the pool's quiet morning quality beginning to shift into the louder, more populated version.
"Thank you," he said. It was said in the same way he said everything: without elaboration, with the weight that came from saying only the necessary thing.
She nodded. She picked up her camera and went to the spectator area. The session began.
She photographed it with the same care she brought to all sessions, the same attention to the light and the water and the particular human things that happened in a space dedicated to one purpose. She photographed the relay team and the first-years and the assistant coach demonstrating a drill. She photographed Kael from the far end, where his right shoulder was visible in profile, and thought about what it cost to carry something quietly and whether the quiet was courage or a different thing, and whether the difference mattered in the specific case of a person who had been carrying it for reasons she was only beginning to understand.
That evening on the forum: If someone is carrying something they shouldn't be carrying alone, what's the right way to offer to share the weight?
@swimmer_zero: You don't offer. You just move closer and wait.
She looked at that for a long time.
She typed: What if you're not sure whether moving closer is something you're allowed to do?
@swimmer_zero: That's usually not a question about permission. That's a question about whether you're ready.
She closed the forum. She went to bed. She thought about readiness and what it required, and whether she had it, and what she would do if she did. She thought about injury in the larger sense, across the following week, not only the physical kind.
She had watched a lot of athletes. She had been watching this team for two months, which was long enough to develop a sense of the difference between the injuries people disclosed and the ones they carried silently, between the visible flags and the ones people had learned to control so well that they were invisible to everyone except someone who was watching closely and consistently enough to catch the very small moments when the control slipped.
Kael's shoulder was the physical version of a pattern she was also seeing in a different register. The carrying of something difficult without disclosure. The management of pain without support. The choice, made out of loyalty or necessity or some combination of both, to handle things alone because the alternative seemed to require more than was available.
She had been doing some version of this herself. She had been carrying the Coach situation, the Lena question, the @swimmer_zero hypothesis, the unnamed thing that was growing in the space between the professional and the personal, and she had been carrying all of it in the back section of her notebook and the locked folder on her laptop, without telling anyone, without asking for the kind of help that required disclosure.
She recognized the pattern because she had built it herself, over two years of rebuilding after the piece that was pulled. You learned to carry things carefully when you had learned what happened when you dropped them.
She also recognized, in the week following the shoulder conversation, that this was not a permanent solution. Things that were carried too long without support eventually became too heavy to manage quietly. She had watched this happen to sources she had interviewed, to athletes whose injuries had become structural rather than acute, to journalists who had held too many difficult stories without proper support and had eventually broken something important.
She was, she thought, doing okay. The carrying had not become too heavy yet. But she was aware of the weight, which meant she was aware enough.
The session that week was the last one before the first competitive meet. She photographed it with the particular attention she brought to last-things and first-things, the boundary moments that organized a narrative. The team was working with pre-competition intensity, the kind that had a different quality from regular training: sharper, more focused, with the particular electricity of people who could feel the actual event approaching.
She photographed Kael from the far end, where the light was good and she could see his right arm in full extension. She watched for the wince. It came twice, small, controlled, something you would miss if you were not looking for it.
She photographed it and would not use the photograph.
After the session she found Ren by the equipment room.
"The meet," she said. "Is he going to be all right?"
Ren looked at her. He knew what she meant.
"Define all right," he said.
"Able to compete. At the level the team needs."
A pause. "Yes. It'll hurt. He'll do it anyway." He looked at her carefully. "You know about the shoulder."
"Yes."
"Are you going to write about it?"
"No."
He held her gaze for a moment. Then he nodded, the slow nod of someone reassessing something. "Okay," he said. "Then yes. He'll be all right."
She went home and wrote in her notebook: he carries things alone because he has learned that the alternative is worse. The shoulder is the same choice as everything else he's been carrying. Loyalty and protection and the particular pride of someone who has decided that need is not a thing he is allowed to show.
Then she wrote: I understand this. I have done this. I am still doing this, in some ways.
She closed the notebook. She went to sleep. In the morning she brought the better coffee and placed it on the railing and waited for him to come up from the water, and when he did, she said nothing, because some things were most coherent in the silence, and she was learning when to use the silence and when to use the words.
She had first noticed it in the second week.
He had been demonstrating a shoulder rotation for one of the relay swimmers, showing the angle of entry, and he had raised his right arm above his head and she had seen, for just a fraction of a second, something in the quality of the movement that was not quite right. Not a visible flinch. Not anything a camera would catch unless it were looking for it. More like a calibration, the micro-adjustment of a person who had learned to move through a limitation so fluently that the limitation had become part of the movement.
She had noted it in the back section of her notebook: right shoulder. Not an injury in the conventional sense. A management.
She had seen it twice more since then, both times in moments when he was not performing for anyone, when his attention was elsewhere and the automatic correction he applied in public had a gap in it.
She did not know what had happened. She knew, with the confidence of someone who had been watching carefully, that it had happened.
The question she had asked him, direct, had been answered directly: no. Which told her less about the answer than about what he was not ready to discuss.
She had not pressed. She understood the grammar of not pressing. What she had done instead was keep watching, keep noting, keep building the picture from what she could actually see rather than from what she was told.
After the session she sat in her spot in the stands and looked at the pool water settling back to stillness after the last relay drill, and she thought about the forum thread from the previous night.
She had asked: if a person is managing something difficult alone, and you can see they are, what's the right thing to do?
@swimmer_zero: Depends on whether they're managing it alone by choice or by necessity.
Sae-i: What if you can't tell which?
@swimmer_zero: Then you keep showing up. You make it clear the option of not being alone exists. You don't force the door.
She had written that last phrase in her notebook: don't force the door.
She was learning, in this assignment, in ways that were not entirely separable from the assignment, what that looked like. You showed up. You did not demand. You waited with the patience of someone who understood that the thing they were waiting for was worth waiting for.
She gathered her equipment and descended to the exit. The pool lights were beginning their end-of-day cycle, the water going from the sharp lit blue of active sessions to the deeper, quieter color of a space returning to itself.
She walked out into the late afternoon and pulled her jacket against the autumn air and thought about the shape of the story she was building, and the shape of the understanding she was building alongside it, and how the two things were woven together now in ways she could no longer fully separate.
She was beginning to think that was not a problem. She was beginning to think it might be how it was supposed to work.
After the session she lingered, which had become more normal than unusual by now, a gradual recalibration of what she did with the time after the formal practice ended.
Most of the team cleared out quickly, the rhythm of people with afternoon classes or other obligations pulling them toward the exit. Ren usually left with a group of three or four, trailing cheerful conversation. Dae-won left promptly, always, with the focused purposefulness of a year-one student who was still learning to manage the competing claims on his time.
Kael was the last one in the water and the last one out.
She watched him complete the cool-down laps from the observation area, her notebook closed now, not a session anymore but simply watching. She had given herself permission for this, somewhere in the recent weeks, without announcing the permission to herself. She was here and she was looking and she was not turning it into copy.
He reached the far wall and turned and looked up at the observation area. He could see her clearly from there, she knew, because she had checked the sightlines from the water when the pool was empty. He looked at her for a moment, neither greeting nor challenge, and then he pushed off the wall for the final lap.
She thought about the shoulder. She thought about the forum thread: don't force the door. She thought about showing up and making the option of not being alone visible.
He climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel around his shoulders and sat on the edge for a moment, the way he did at the end of long sessions, a brief stillness before the transition back to the rest of the day.
She came down from the observation area and walked to the pool edge and sat down on the bench a few feet from where he was sitting on the tiles. Not close. Not at maximum distance.
She did not say anything about the shoulder. She did not ask the question she could have asked.
What she said was: "Good session today."
He looked at her. Then: "Better than Tuesday."
"The relay exchange timing was off on Tuesday."
"Yes." He was quiet for a moment. "You saw that."
"I see most things."
He made a sound that was not quite a laugh but in the vicinity of one, a quiet exhalation of acknowledgment. "I know."
They sat there for a moment in the settling quiet of the emptied pool, the water still in motion from the last laps, the light doing its end-of-day shift.
She thought about the shoulder. She held the question back the way she had learned to hold things. The door would open when it was ready.
"Same time tomorrow?" she said.
He stood up, picked up his bag. "Five AM?"
"If you're there," she said.
He walked toward the locker room. At the door he paused, not quite turning: "I'll be there."
She watched him go, and then she looked at the pool, and she thought that some understandings did not require words at all, and that the ability to recognize that was something she was still learning, and that she was grateful for the learning even when it was slower than she expected it to be.
She dreamed about the pool that night, which she recognized when she woke up as something that had been happening with increasing frequency since the assignment began.
She was not a person who generally paid attention to her dreams, having formed the view, early in her practical education, that dreams were mostly noise generated by the processing functions of a tired brain and that the signal-to-noise ratio was not worth the interpretive effort. But she had noticed the recurring quality of the pool dreams without making claims about what they meant.
In the dreams the pool was always lit the way it was lit at five in the morning, the underbelly blue of the overnight setting, the water still. She was always in the observation area. There was always someone in the water.
She did not, on reflection, need to analyze what this meant.
She got up earlier than usual and made coffee and sat at her desk and looked at what she had accumulated over the past weeks, the notes and the photographs and the drafts and the working documents she kept in the folder she had labeled, with the particular irony of a journalist naming her own files, simply: truth draft.
She had been telling herself, with reasonable consistency, that what she was doing was building a story. That the story was the purpose and everything else was the material. This was not incorrect. It was also not complete.
She sat with the incompleteness for a while, which was something she had learned to do rather than paper over it with more activity. Then she got up and put on her jacket and picked up her bag and walked to the pool complex in the early morning dark, arriving at five fourteen, which was six minutes earlier than she needed to be there.
He was already on the bench when she came in.
She set down one of the two cups and took her seat without either of them saying anything, and the water was the blue it always was at this hour, and the space between them on the bench was the space it was, and she thought: this is also part of the story. I just don't know yet how to write it.
The door at the far end opened and Ren came in, bright and slightly damp from rain, and the day's session began, and she opened her notebook and she wrote everything down and she knew that some of it was for the article and some of it was for the folder she called truth draft and some of it was just for her.
You've reached the end of this chapter
She saw it twice before she wrote it down.
The first time was during the Thursday session, when he was helping one of the younger swimmers adjust a kickboard position. He reached upward, his right arm extending to take the board from the rack, and then, for a fraction of a second, he did not complete the motion. He paused, mid-reach, and then continued, retrieved the board, handed it to the swimmer, said something that made the swimmer nod and return to the water.
She had been photographing the far end of the pool. She caught the pause in her peripheral vision. She noted it, without doing anything about it, because she had learned that initial observations needed to accumulate before they were useful.
The second time was during the cool-down, when he was demonstrating a stretch to one of the relay swimmers. He extended his right arm behind his head and then stopped, the extension incomplete, and continued the demonstration with the left side.
She wrote it down when she got home. Not in the session notes. In the back section. Shoulder, right. Two incidents, same session. Not dramatic. Controlled. He knew it was happening.
She thought about this. She thought about the weight of the season on a specific joint, on the particular muscles that drove competitive swimming, on what it meant to be the person responsible for the whole team's performance while managing something you were not disclosing.
She did not ask him about it that session. She did not ask him about it Friday. She waited, because the information needed context, and because asking too early would produce a denial and a closed door and the end of the conversation.
She asked on Tuesday, three days after the second incident.
She had arrived at the 5 AM session with the better coffee. She placed his cup on the railing. He came out of the water at six and picked it up and she said, without preamble, without framing it as a journalist's question: "Your shoulder."
He looked at her. He did not say no immediately, which was itself information.
"It's been happening for a few weeks," she said. "I've been watching."
The pause was careful. Not constructed, she thought, but actual: someone deciding in real time how much to give.
"It's manageable," he said.
"Is it being treated?"
"No."
"Are you going to treat it?"
"After the season."
She looked at him. She thought about the meet that was two weeks away and the nationals at the end of the season and the particular arithmetic of an injury that was manageable until it wasn't. She thought about the position she was in: a journalist who was also someone who had been bringing coffee to this pool for six weeks and had a hypothesis about who she had been talking to on a forum for thirteen months, and who was now standing with information that was simultaneously personal and potentially a story and she did not know how to hold both of those things at the same time.
"I won't write about it," she said.
He looked at her. She could not fully read the look, but it had a quality she had not seen from him before: something between surprise and the specific state of being seen in a way you had not anticipated.
"You don't have to make that commitment," he said.
"I'm making it anyway."
"Why."
She thought about this. She had several answers that were true and one that was most true. She gave him the most true one: "Because it's not the story. The story is something else, and the shoulder is part of your life and not mine to tell."
He was quiet for long enough that the morning session was beginning to fill up, team members arriving in ones and twos, the pool's quiet morning quality beginning to shift into the louder, more populated version.
"Thank you," he said. It was said in the same way he said everything: without elaboration, with the weight that came from saying only the necessary thing.
She nodded. She picked up her camera and went to the spectator area. The session began.
She photographed it with the same care she brought to all sessions, the same attention to the light and the water and the particular human things that happened in a space dedicated to one purpose. She photographed the relay team and the first-years and the assistant coach demonstrating a drill. She photographed Kael from the far end, where his right shoulder was visible in profile, and thought about what it cost to carry something quietly and whether the quiet was courage or a different thing, and whether the difference mattered in the specific case of a person who had been carrying it for reasons she was only beginning to understand.
That evening on the forum: If someone is carrying something they shouldn't be carrying alone, what's the right way to offer to share the weight?
@swimmer_zero: You don't offer. You just move closer and wait.
She looked at that for a long time.
She typed: What if you're not sure whether moving closer is something you're allowed to do?
@swimmer_zero: That's usually not a question about permission. That's a question about whether you're ready.
She closed the forum. She went to bed. She thought about readiness and what it required, and whether she had it, and what she would do if she did. She thought about injury in the larger sense, across the following week, not only the physical kind.
She had watched a lot of athletes. She had been watching this team for two months, which was long enough to develop a sense of the difference between the injuries people disclosed and the ones they carried silently, between the visible flags and the ones people had learned to control so well that they were invisible to everyone except someone who was watching closely and consistently enough to catch the very small moments when the control slipped.
Kael's shoulder was the physical version of a pattern she was also seeing in a different register. The carrying of something difficult without disclosure. The management of pain without support. The choice, made out of loyalty or necessity or some combination of both, to handle things alone because the alternative seemed to require more than was available.
She had been doing some version of this herself. She had been carrying the Coach situation, the Lena question, the @swimmer_zero hypothesis, the unnamed thing that was growing in the space between the professional and the personal, and she had been carrying all of it in the back section of her notebook and the locked folder on her laptop, without telling anyone, without asking for the kind of help that required disclosure.
She recognized the pattern because she had built it herself, over two years of rebuilding after the piece that was pulled. You learned to carry things carefully when you had learned what happened when you dropped them.
She also recognized, in the week following the shoulder conversation, that this was not a permanent solution. Things that were carried too long without support eventually became too heavy to manage quietly. She had watched this happen to sources she had interviewed, to athletes whose injuries had become structural rather than acute, to journalists who had held too many difficult stories without proper support and had eventually broken something important.
She was, she thought, doing okay. The carrying had not become too heavy yet. But she was aware of the weight, which meant she was aware enough.
The session that week was the last one before the first competitive meet. She photographed it with the particular attention she brought to last-things and first-things, the boundary moments that organized a narrative. The team was working with pre-competition intensity, the kind that had a different quality from regular training: sharper, more focused, with the particular electricity of people who could feel the actual event approaching.
She photographed Kael from the far end, where the light was good and she could see his right arm in full extension. She watched for the wince. It came twice, small, controlled, something you would miss if you were not looking for it.
She photographed it and would not use the photograph.
After the session she found Ren by the equipment room.
"The meet," she said. "Is he going to be all right?"
Ren looked at her. He knew what she meant.
"Define all right," he said.
"Able to compete. At the level the team needs."
A pause. "Yes. It'll hurt. He'll do it anyway." He looked at her carefully. "You know about the shoulder."
"Yes."
"Are you going to write about it?"
"No."
He held her gaze for a moment. Then he nodded, the slow nod of someone reassessing something. "Okay," he said. "Then yes. He'll be all right."
She went home and wrote in her notebook: he carries things alone because he has learned that the alternative is worse. The shoulder is the same choice as everything else he's been carrying. Loyalty and protection and the particular pride of someone who has decided that need is not a thing he is allowed to show.
Then she wrote: I understand this. I have done this. I am still doing this, in some ways.
She closed the notebook. She went to sleep. In the morning she brought the better coffee and placed it on the railing and waited for him to come up from the water, and when he did, she said nothing, because some things were most coherent in the silence, and she was learning when to use the silence and when to use the words.
She had first noticed it in the second week.
He had been demonstrating a shoulder rotation for one of the relay swimmers, showing the angle of entry, and he had raised his right arm above his head and she had seen, for just a fraction of a second, something in the quality of the movement that was not quite right. Not a visible flinch. Not anything a camera would catch unless it were looking for it. More like a calibration, the micro-adjustment of a person who had learned to move through a limitation so fluently that the limitation had become part of the movement.
She had noted it in the back section of her notebook: right shoulder. Not an injury in the conventional sense. A management.
She had seen it twice more since then, both times in moments when he was not performing for anyone, when his attention was elsewhere and the automatic correction he applied in public had a gap in it.
She did not know what had happened. She knew, with the confidence of someone who had been watching carefully, that it had happened.
The question she had asked him, direct, had been answered directly: no. Which told her less about the answer than about what he was not ready to discuss.
She had not pressed. She understood the grammar of not pressing. What she had done instead was keep watching, keep noting, keep building the picture from what she could actually see rather than from what she was told.
After the session she sat in her spot in the stands and looked at the pool water settling back to stillness after the last relay drill, and she thought about the forum thread from the previous night.
She had asked: if a person is managing something difficult alone, and you can see they are, what's the right thing to do?
@swimmer_zero: Depends on whether they're managing it alone by choice or by necessity.
Sae-i: What if you can't tell which?
@swimmer_zero: Then you keep showing up. You make it clear the option of not being alone exists. You don't force the door.
She had written that last phrase in her notebook: don't force the door.
She was learning, in this assignment, in ways that were not entirely separable from the assignment, what that looked like. You showed up. You did not demand. You waited with the patience of someone who understood that the thing they were waiting for was worth waiting for.
She gathered her equipment and descended to the exit. The pool lights were beginning their end-of-day cycle, the water going from the sharp lit blue of active sessions to the deeper, quieter color of a space returning to itself.
She walked out into the late afternoon and pulled her jacket against the autumn air and thought about the shape of the story she was building, and the shape of the understanding she was building alongside it, and how the two things were woven together now in ways she could no longer fully separate.
She was beginning to think that was not a problem. She was beginning to think it might be how it was supposed to work.
After the session she lingered, which had become more normal than unusual by now, a gradual recalibration of what she did with the time after the formal practice ended.
Most of the team cleared out quickly, the rhythm of people with afternoon classes or other obligations pulling them toward the exit. Ren usually left with a group of three or four, trailing cheerful conversation. Dae-won left promptly, always, with the focused purposefulness of a year-one student who was still learning to manage the competing claims on his time.
Kael was the last one in the water and the last one out.
She watched him complete the cool-down laps from the observation area, her notebook closed now, not a session anymore but simply watching. She had given herself permission for this, somewhere in the recent weeks, without announcing the permission to herself. She was here and she was looking and she was not turning it into copy.
He reached the far wall and turned and looked up at the observation area. He could see her clearly from there, she knew, because she had checked the sightlines from the water when the pool was empty. He looked at her for a moment, neither greeting nor challenge, and then he pushed off the wall for the final lap.
She thought about the shoulder. She thought about the forum thread: don't force the door. She thought about showing up and making the option of not being alone visible.
He climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel around his shoulders and sat on the edge for a moment, the way he did at the end of long sessions, a brief stillness before the transition back to the rest of the day.
She came down from the observation area and walked to the pool edge and sat down on the bench a few feet from where he was sitting on the tiles. Not close. Not at maximum distance.
She did not say anything about the shoulder. She did not ask the question she could have asked.
What she said was: "Good session today."
He looked at her. Then: "Better than Tuesday."
"The relay exchange timing was off on Tuesday."
"Yes." He was quiet for a moment. "You saw that."
"I see most things."
He made a sound that was not quite a laugh but in the vicinity of one, a quiet exhalation of acknowledgment. "I know."
They sat there for a moment in the settling quiet of the emptied pool, the water still in motion from the last laps, the light doing its end-of-day shift.
She thought about the shoulder. She held the question back the way she had learned to hold things. The door would open when it was ready.
"Same time tomorrow?" she said.
He stood up, picked up his bag. "Five AM?"
"If you're there," she said.
He walked toward the locker room. At the door he paused, not quite turning: "I'll be there."
She watched him go, and then she looked at the pool, and she thought that some understandings did not require words at all, and that the ability to recognize that was something she was still learning, and that she was grateful for the learning even when it was slower than she expected it to be.
She dreamed about the pool that night, which she recognized when she woke up as something that had been happening with increasing frequency since the assignment began.
She was not a person who generally paid attention to her dreams, having formed the view, early in her practical education, that dreams were mostly noise generated by the processing functions of a tired brain and that the signal-to-noise ratio was not worth the interpretive effort. But she had noticed the recurring quality of the pool dreams without making claims about what they meant.
In the dreams the pool was always lit the way it was lit at five in the morning, the underbelly blue of the overnight setting, the water still. She was always in the observation area. There was always someone in the water.
She did not, on reflection, need to analyze what this meant.
She got up earlier than usual and made coffee and sat at her desk and looked at what she had accumulated over the past weeks, the notes and the photographs and the drafts and the working documents she kept in the folder she had labeled, with the particular irony of a journalist naming her own files, simply: truth draft.
She had been telling herself, with reasonable consistency, that what she was doing was building a story. That the story was the purpose and everything else was the material. This was not incorrect. It was also not complete.
She sat with the incompleteness for a while, which was something she had learned to do rather than paper over it with more activity. Then she got up and put on her jacket and picked up her bag and walked to the pool complex in the early morning dark, arriving at five fourteen, which was six minutes earlier than she needed to be there.
He was already on the bench when she came in.
She set down one of the two cups and took her seat without either of them saying anything, and the water was the blue it always was at this hour, and the space between them on the bench was the space it was, and she thought: this is also part of the story. I just don't know yet how to write it.
The door at the far end opened and Ren came in, bright and slightly damp from rain, and the day's session began, and she opened her notebook and she wrote everything down and she knew that some of it was for the article and some of it was for the folder she called truth draft and some of it was just for her.
You've reached the end of this chapter