Monday morning arrived with the particular quality that Monday mornings had when you had spent the weekend thinking about something you had decided not to think about.
Yutong was in the Ashworth Building by seven forty-five, which was earlier than she needed to be and exactly as early as her plan required. The plan was simple: retrieve the notebook, which she had left — or not retrieved, which was a distinction she was not examining — on Friday night, and return to the Whitmore lab before the Henderson lab populated with people who would have opinions about her presence there. Clean. Professional. No requirement to acknowledge anything about Friday night except the notebook's existence and her need to recover it.
She had worked out the timing carefully. Sicheng arrived between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty on Mondays — she had observed this without intending to observe it, in the way you accrued information about people you shared a building with. Seven forty-five gave her a comfortable margin.
The Henderson lab was empty when she arrived. She used her keycard — collaboration access, granted by Dr. Osei the previous week — and the door opened without ceremony. The lab in the early morning had the same quality as all labs in the early morning: equipment running, the particular institutional quiet, the sense of a space waiting to resume being itself.
She went to his desk.
The notebook was at the corner, squared precisely to the edge of the surface. She looked at it for a moment before picking it up. He had not simply left it where she'd set it down on Friday — he had moved it, deliberately, to where it would be visible from the door. Squared it. Made it easy to retrieve without having to navigate the desk or ask anyone for help.
She picked it up.
She did not leave.
The plan, she acknowledged to herself now, standing at the corner of his desk, had also assumed she would want to leave as soon as she had the notebook. This assumption was proving less reliable than the timing calculation.
She was not sure why she did not leave. The plan had been clear and the execution had been proceeding correctly and there was no reason to remain standing at the corner of his desk with the notebook in her hand looking at the whiteboard they had worked at on Wednesday, which still had the bracket she had drawn connecting their two arguments, which no one had erased.
She was looking at the bracket when she heard the door.
She had not erased it either, she realized. She had been in this room on Wednesday and again on Friday and she had not erased the bracket, and neither had he, and the whiteboard still showed both their handwriting side by side — his in the clean vertical strokes of someone who had been writing on whiteboards since undergraduate, hers in the compressed diagonal she defaulted to when thinking faster than her hand wanted to move. Two arguments, one bracket, still there on a Monday morning.
She was still looking at it when she heard the door.
---
He was carrying two coffees.
This was the detail that registered first, before his expression or the fact that he had arrived twenty-three minutes earlier than his established Monday pattern. Two coffees, in the paper cups from the place on Forrest Road that she had been to twice and which she had not mentioned to him. One in each hand. He stopped in the doorway when he saw her — a half-second of stillness, recalibration — and then continued into the lab as though her presence at his desk at seven fifty-two on a Monday morning was unremarkable.
He held out one of the coffees.
She looked at it. Flat white, she could tell from the cup size and the color at the lip. Which was what she drank. Which she had not told him.
"Thank you," she said, after a beat that was slightly longer than strictly necessary.
He nodded. Set his own coffee on his desk. Took off his coat. Sat down. Opened his laptop with the efficiency of someone resuming a task that had only been briefly interrupted, as though the task were simply continuing and she were simply part of the context it was continuing in.
She sat down at the workstation she had used on Friday. She had not decided to do this. She did it.
She looked at the coffee. Flat white, correctly made, from the place on Forrest Road whose existence she had discovered by accident on her third day in Edinburgh when she had taken a wrong turn back from the library. She had been twice. She had not mentioned it to him. She had not mentioned it to anyone.
He had come in twenty-three minutes early on a Monday morning carrying two coffees from a place she had not told him about, for a person who had not told him she would be there.
She drank the coffee. It was exactly right. She chose not to think about what that meant.
---
The lab filled gradually after eight. She was aware of each arrival in the peripheral way she was aware of most things — registered, filed, not requiring direct attention. A second-year she didn't know yet. The third-year Aiko from the Whitmore lab had mentioned, who was apparently cross-registered with Henderson on a shared project. Then a PhD student she had not met: tall, late twenties, with the particular ease of someone who had been in a department long enough to feel ownership of it.
He looked at her with undisguised curiosity.
"Whitmore lab?" he asked. Not unfriendly — simply direct, in the manner of someone who preferred to have information than not have it.
"Collaboration," she said. "Methodology alignment."
"Dr. Osei's initiative," Sicheng said, from his desk, without looking up from his screen. "Song Yutong is working on the temporal variance component with me. Henderson's aware."
The student — Jamie, she would learn — accepted this with a nod and went to his own desk. She observed how Sicheng had handled the question: accurate, sufficient, no excess. Not defensive, which would have communicated something. Not overly casual, which would have communicated something else. Just information, delivered in a register that closed the subject without appearing to close it.
She recognized this. She had watched him do it in the seminar corridor with Dr. Osei, when Dr. Osei had looked between them with the particular expression of someone arranging furniture. He did it for both of them without being asked.
She looked back at her laptop.
She found herself thinking about the specific mechanics of what he had just done — the way the information had been delivered at desk-volume, addressed to the room rather than to Jamie, phrased in the third person as though she were not present to confirm it herself. It had given her no role to play, no correction to make, no social performance required. He had handled the introduction without making it an introduction, which was exactly what she would have wanted if she had been asked, which she had not been, which was why it worked.
She had not been asked. He had simply known.
She was adding this to the growing list of things she was filing without examining when she noticed that Aiko, at the adjacent bench, had been watching this exchange with the neutral expression of someone who had observed the Henderson lab long enough to have context she was choosing not to share. Yutong filed this too — Aiko as variable, function unknown, possibly relevant later.
---
They worked in parallel for the next hour. She had her own data open — the protein interaction dataset that was the core of her thesis — and he had whatever he was working on, and the lab had its Monday morning rhythm, and it was, she noted with the part of her mind that catalogued unexpected things, remarkably easy to work in this room.
She was deep in a particularly demanding section of the analysis when she heard him make a sound — not quite a word, more the involuntary vocalization of someone encountering something that disagreed with them. She looked up without deciding to look up.
He was reading a paper. Frowning at it in a specific way she recognized: not confused, not bored, but resistant. The frown of someone whose internal model of a problem was being challenged by an assumption they found incorrect.
She looked back at her own screen.
Fifteen minutes passed. She finished the section, flagged three points for follow-up, moved to the next file.
"The third assumption in this paper is wrong," he said. He was not looking at her. He said it in the way you might say something you had been thinking for some time and had finally decided to say aloud.
"I know," she said. "I read it last week."
He looked up. "Why didn't you say anything?"
She considered this. "You hadn't asked."
A beat. The lab continued around them — keyboards, the hum of equipment, Jamie saying something quietly to the second-year at the adjacent bench. Sicheng looked at her across the room with an expression she was still learning to read, the version of his face that existed when the careful management relaxed slightly and whatever was underneath became briefly visible.
Then he smiled. Not the contained, professional acknowledgment she had seen him deploy in public contexts. Something smaller and more specific, directed entirely at her, with the quality of genuine amusement that people had when someone did something that was both irritating and exactly right.
She had not seen him smile like that in four years.
She looked back at her screen. She did not examine what had just happened to her breathing.
The lab continued. Jamie returned to whatever he had been working on. The second-year typed something and then deleted it. The equipment hummed. Outside the window, Edinburgh was doing its standard late-October performance: clouds, the suggestion of rain that had not yet committed, the particular gray that made the stone buildings look like they had been there since before color was invented.
She opened a new analysis file. She focused on it with the specific deliberateness of someone who has decided to focus on something and is making good on that decision. The data was good data. It deserved attention. She gave it attention.
She did not look across the room again, which required a small and continuous effort she chose not to quantify.
---
At nine o'clock she began to pack up. The Osei meeting was at ten and she needed to return to Whitmore lab to prepare. She closed her laptop, gathered her notebook — the recovered notebook, which had been sitting beside her laptop the entire morning in the position she had set it rather than the position he had squared it to — and stood.
"Thursday methodology discussion still on?" he asked. He was looking at his screen.
"Still on."
She picked up her bag. A moment, the kind that appeared in transitions, when the conversation could end or continue and neither outcome was forced.
She had not planned what she said next.
"That paper — the third assumption. If you want to talk through why it's wrong, I have notes." She said it in the same register she used for professional offers, because it was a professional offer, because the notes were real and the conversation would be useful. "Thursday, if that works."
He looked up from his screen. He had the expression of someone recalibrating, which she was beginning to recognize as what his face did when something did not fit his predictions.
"Thursday," he said.
"Thursday," she confirmed.
She walked to the door. In the hallway she was three steps toward the lift before she registered what had just happened: she had initiated. Not him. She had offered the continuation, extended the thread, chosen not to let the transition end cleanly. She had been doing so well at not doing this.
She continued walking.
---
The Whitmore lab had its own Monday morning rhythm, which she slotted back into with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to move between spaces without carrying one into the other. She made tea — the lab's electric kettle, the particular brand of tea bags that Marcus had declared superior and which she had come to agree with in the weeks since — and sat at her desk and opened the shared collaboration document to transfer the notes she had made that morning.
He had already added to it.
She had expected this — he updated the document consistently, usually in the evenings — but the timestamp on this morning's additions was 6:47am. Before she had arrived at the Henderson lab. Before the coffee. Before any of what had happened this morning.
She read through the additions. Thorough, organized, the same clear hierarchical structure she had come to expect from his written thinking. And at the end, added between two lines of methodology notes as though it were simply another item of professional business:
*The third assumption in Hartley et al. (2023) — I've been thinking about it since last week. Will discuss Thursday if you're willing.*
She read this once.
Then again.
He had written this at 6:47am, before she arrived, before their exchange in the lab. Which meant he had already known, when he said *the third assumption in this paper is wrong,* that she had read it. He had flagged it in the document before testing whether she had noticed it. The spontaneous observation had not been spontaneous. It had been a question phrased as a statement, waiting to see what she would do with it.
She sat with this for a moment.
This was, she recognized, exactly how she would have done it.
"Collaboration going well?" Marcus appeared at the edge of her desk with his own mug and the particular expression of someone who had been curious about something for longer than they had managed to contain.
"Productively," she said.
"Lin Sicheng." Marcus said the name with the air of someone consulting a file they had been keeping. "What's he like? We don't really interact with Henderson lab much. Is he as — " he made a gesture that encompassed something imprecise but probably meant *intense* "—as he seems in seminars?"
She thought about the coffee she had not asked for and had not been offered so much as simply provided. About the notebook squared to the corner of the desk where she could find it. About the smile she had not been meant to earn, that had happened anyway. About the note in the shared document at 6:47am.
"No," she said. "He's precise."
Marcus considered this assessment and apparently found it satisfying enough to accept. "Right. Makes sense." He drifted back toward his own desk.
She looked at her screen.
*Precise.* It was the right word for the version of him she could describe to someone who did not know him. It was not the complete word. The complete word would have required explaining the coffee, and the notebook, and the way he had said *the third assumption in this paper is wrong* while looking at his screen and not at her, and the 6:47am timestamp on a note about a paper they had not yet discussed.
She did not have a word for all of that. She was not sure the word existed yet.
She opened her own notes from the morning and began to transfer them into the document, adding her thoughts on Hartley et al. beneath his, their two analyses building on each other in the margin of a shared page the way their arguments had built on the whiteboard in the conference room and the way their thinking had moved through the temporal variance code on Friday night.
It occurred to her, not for the first time and with less resistance than before, that this was what it felt like to work with someone whose mind moved in compatible directions. That she had been doing it all morning without noticing she was doing it.
She noticed now.
She filed the observation in the category she still had not named, and continued working, and did not think about Thursday more than was strictly necessary, which was more than she would have preferred.
Outside, Edinburgh was committing to rain now, properly, the kind that settled in for the day. She could hear it on the window behind her. She had been in this city for six weeks and had already stopped finding the rain remarkable, which was either adaptation or resignation and she had not determined which.
The shared document had forty-three entries now. She had counted without meaning to. Twenty-two from him, twenty-one from her, and the balance had shifted incrementally each day without either of them discussing it, the way some things shifted without requiring a conversation — gradually, then apparently all at once.
She saved the document. She closed the collaboration file. She opened her own thesis chapter and worked on it for the rest of the morning, in the Whitmore lab, which was exactly where she was supposed to be. This was fine. This was the correct arrangement of things. She told herself this with the conviction of someone who had not yet stopped believing it, which was, she noted, not the same as believing it without effort. The rain on the window continued. She worked. Thursday was four days away, which was a fact and not a countdown, and she was treating it as the former. She was good at treating facts as facts. She had always been good at this. She told herself so, and returned to her chapter, and the rain continued, and Thursday grew one hour closer with each hour that passed.
You've reached the end of this chapter
Monday morning arrived with the particular quality that Monday mornings had when you had spent the weekend thinking about something you had decided not to think about.
Yutong was in the Ashworth Building by seven forty-five, which was earlier than she needed to be and exactly as early as her plan required. The plan was simple: retrieve the notebook, which she had left — or not retrieved, which was a distinction she was not examining — on Friday night, and return to the Whitmore lab before the Henderson lab populated with people who would have opinions about her presence there. Clean. Professional. No requirement to acknowledge anything about Friday night except the notebook's existence and her need to recover it.
She had worked out the timing carefully. Sicheng arrived between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty on Mondays — she had observed this without intending to observe it, in the way you accrued information about people you shared a building with. Seven forty-five gave her a comfortable margin.
The Henderson lab was empty when she arrived. She used her keycard — collaboration access, granted by Dr. Osei the previous week — and the door opened without ceremony. The lab in the early morning had the same quality as all labs in the early morning: equipment running, the particular institutional quiet, the sense of a space waiting to resume being itself.
She went to his desk.
The notebook was at the corner, squared precisely to the edge of the surface. She looked at it for a moment before picking it up. He had not simply left it where she'd set it down on Friday — he had moved it, deliberately, to where it would be visible from the door. Squared it. Made it easy to retrieve without having to navigate the desk or ask anyone for help.
She picked it up.
She did not leave.
The plan, she acknowledged to herself now, standing at the corner of his desk, had also assumed she would want to leave as soon as she had the notebook. This assumption was proving less reliable than the timing calculation.
She was not sure why she did not leave. The plan had been clear and the execution had been proceeding correctly and there was no reason to remain standing at the corner of his desk with the notebook in her hand looking at the whiteboard they had worked at on Wednesday, which still had the bracket she had drawn connecting their two arguments, which no one had erased.
She was looking at the bracket when she heard the door.
She had not erased it either, she realized. She had been in this room on Wednesday and again on Friday and she had not erased the bracket, and neither had he, and the whiteboard still showed both their handwriting side by side — his in the clean vertical strokes of someone who had been writing on whiteboards since undergraduate, hers in the compressed diagonal she defaulted to when thinking faster than her hand wanted to move. Two arguments, one bracket, still there on a Monday morning.
She was still looking at it when she heard the door.
---
He was carrying two coffees.
This was the detail that registered first, before his expression or the fact that he had arrived twenty-three minutes earlier than his established Monday pattern. Two coffees, in the paper cups from the place on Forrest Road that she had been to twice and which she had not mentioned to him. One in each hand. He stopped in the doorway when he saw her — a half-second of stillness, recalibration — and then continued into the lab as though her presence at his desk at seven fifty-two on a Monday morning was unremarkable.
He held out one of the coffees.
She looked at it. Flat white, she could tell from the cup size and the color at the lip. Which was what she drank. Which she had not told him.
"Thank you," she said, after a beat that was slightly longer than strictly necessary.
He nodded. Set his own coffee on his desk. Took off his coat. Sat down. Opened his laptop with the efficiency of someone resuming a task that had only been briefly interrupted, as though the task were simply continuing and she were simply part of the context it was continuing in.
She sat down at the workstation she had used on Friday. She had not decided to do this. She did it.
She looked at the coffee. Flat white, correctly made, from the place on Forrest Road whose existence she had discovered by accident on her third day in Edinburgh when she had taken a wrong turn back from the library. She had been twice. She had not mentioned it to him. She had not mentioned it to anyone.
He had come in twenty-three minutes early on a Monday morning carrying two coffees from a place she had not told him about, for a person who had not told him she would be there.
She drank the coffee. It was exactly right. She chose not to think about what that meant.
---
The lab filled gradually after eight. She was aware of each arrival in the peripheral way she was aware of most things — registered, filed, not requiring direct attention. A second-year she didn't know yet. The third-year Aiko from the Whitmore lab had mentioned, who was apparently cross-registered with Henderson on a shared project. Then a PhD student she had not met: tall, late twenties, with the particular ease of someone who had been in a department long enough to feel ownership of it.
He looked at her with undisguised curiosity.
"Whitmore lab?" he asked. Not unfriendly — simply direct, in the manner of someone who preferred to have information than not have it.
"Collaboration," she said. "Methodology alignment."
"Dr. Osei's initiative," Sicheng said, from his desk, without looking up from his screen. "Song Yutong is working on the temporal variance component with me. Henderson's aware."
The student — Jamie, she would learn — accepted this with a nod and went to his own desk. She observed how Sicheng had handled the question: accurate, sufficient, no excess. Not defensive, which would have communicated something. Not overly casual, which would have communicated something else. Just information, delivered in a register that closed the subject without appearing to close it.
She recognized this. She had watched him do it in the seminar corridor with Dr. Osei, when Dr. Osei had looked between them with the particular expression of someone arranging furniture. He did it for both of them without being asked.
She looked back at her laptop.
She found herself thinking about the specific mechanics of what he had just done — the way the information had been delivered at desk-volume, addressed to the room rather than to Jamie, phrased in the third person as though she were not present to confirm it herself. It had given her no role to play, no correction to make, no social performance required. He had handled the introduction without making it an introduction, which was exactly what she would have wanted if she had been asked, which she had not been, which was why it worked.
She had not been asked. He had simply known.
She was adding this to the growing list of things she was filing without examining when she noticed that Aiko, at the adjacent bench, had been watching this exchange with the neutral expression of someone who had observed the Henderson lab long enough to have context she was choosing not to share. Yutong filed this too — Aiko as variable, function unknown, possibly relevant later.
---
They worked in parallel for the next hour. She had her own data open — the protein interaction dataset that was the core of her thesis — and he had whatever he was working on, and the lab had its Monday morning rhythm, and it was, she noted with the part of her mind that catalogued unexpected things, remarkably easy to work in this room.
She was deep in a particularly demanding section of the analysis when she heard him make a sound — not quite a word, more the involuntary vocalization of someone encountering something that disagreed with them. She looked up without deciding to look up.
He was reading a paper. Frowning at it in a specific way she recognized: not confused, not bored, but resistant. The frown of someone whose internal model of a problem was being challenged by an assumption they found incorrect.
She looked back at her own screen.
Fifteen minutes passed. She finished the section, flagged three points for follow-up, moved to the next file.
"The third assumption in this paper is wrong," he said. He was not looking at her. He said it in the way you might say something you had been thinking for some time and had finally decided to say aloud.
"I know," she said. "I read it last week."
He looked up. "Why didn't you say anything?"
She considered this. "You hadn't asked."
A beat. The lab continued around them — keyboards, the hum of equipment, Jamie saying something quietly to the second-year at the adjacent bench. Sicheng looked at her across the room with an expression she was still learning to read, the version of his face that existed when the careful management relaxed slightly and whatever was underneath became briefly visible.
Then he smiled. Not the contained, professional acknowledgment she had seen him deploy in public contexts. Something smaller and more specific, directed entirely at her, with the quality of genuine amusement that people had when someone did something that was both irritating and exactly right.
She had not seen him smile like that in four years.
She looked back at her screen. She did not examine what had just happened to her breathing.
The lab continued. Jamie returned to whatever he had been working on. The second-year typed something and then deleted it. The equipment hummed. Outside the window, Edinburgh was doing its standard late-October performance: clouds, the suggestion of rain that had not yet committed, the particular gray that made the stone buildings look like they had been there since before color was invented.
She opened a new analysis file. She focused on it with the specific deliberateness of someone who has decided to focus on something and is making good on that decision. The data was good data. It deserved attention. She gave it attention.
She did not look across the room again, which required a small and continuous effort she chose not to quantify.
---
At nine o'clock she began to pack up. The Osei meeting was at ten and she needed to return to Whitmore lab to prepare. She closed her laptop, gathered her notebook — the recovered notebook, which had been sitting beside her laptop the entire morning in the position she had set it rather than the position he had squared it to — and stood.
"Thursday methodology discussion still on?" he asked. He was looking at his screen.
"Still on."
She picked up her bag. A moment, the kind that appeared in transitions, when the conversation could end or continue and neither outcome was forced.
She had not planned what she said next.
"That paper — the third assumption. If you want to talk through why it's wrong, I have notes." She said it in the same register she used for professional offers, because it was a professional offer, because the notes were real and the conversation would be useful. "Thursday, if that works."
He looked up from his screen. He had the expression of someone recalibrating, which she was beginning to recognize as what his face did when something did not fit his predictions.
"Thursday," he said.
"Thursday," she confirmed.
She walked to the door. In the hallway she was three steps toward the lift before she registered what had just happened: she had initiated. Not him. She had offered the continuation, extended the thread, chosen not to let the transition end cleanly. She had been doing so well at not doing this.
She continued walking.
---
The Whitmore lab had its own Monday morning rhythm, which she slotted back into with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to move between spaces without carrying one into the other. She made tea — the lab's electric kettle, the particular brand of tea bags that Marcus had declared superior and which she had come to agree with in the weeks since — and sat at her desk and opened the shared collaboration document to transfer the notes she had made that morning.
He had already added to it.
She had expected this — he updated the document consistently, usually in the evenings — but the timestamp on this morning's additions was 6:47am. Before she had arrived at the Henderson lab. Before the coffee. Before any of what had happened this morning.
She read through the additions. Thorough, organized, the same clear hierarchical structure she had come to expect from his written thinking. And at the end, added between two lines of methodology notes as though it were simply another item of professional business:
*The third assumption in Hartley et al. (2023) — I've been thinking about it since last week. Will discuss Thursday if you're willing.*
She read this once.
Then again.
He had written this at 6:47am, before she arrived, before their exchange in the lab. Which meant he had already known, when he said *the third assumption in this paper is wrong,* that she had read it. He had flagged it in the document before testing whether she had noticed it. The spontaneous observation had not been spontaneous. It had been a question phrased as a statement, waiting to see what she would do with it.
She sat with this for a moment.
This was, she recognized, exactly how she would have done it.
"Collaboration going well?" Marcus appeared at the edge of her desk with his own mug and the particular expression of someone who had been curious about something for longer than they had managed to contain.
"Productively," she said.
"Lin Sicheng." Marcus said the name with the air of someone consulting a file they had been keeping. "What's he like? We don't really interact with Henderson lab much. Is he as — " he made a gesture that encompassed something imprecise but probably meant *intense* "—as he seems in seminars?"
She thought about the coffee she had not asked for and had not been offered so much as simply provided. About the notebook squared to the corner of the desk where she could find it. About the smile she had not been meant to earn, that had happened anyway. About the note in the shared document at 6:47am.
"No," she said. "He's precise."
Marcus considered this assessment and apparently found it satisfying enough to accept. "Right. Makes sense." He drifted back toward his own desk.
She looked at her screen.
*Precise.* It was the right word for the version of him she could describe to someone who did not know him. It was not the complete word. The complete word would have required explaining the coffee, and the notebook, and the way he had said *the third assumption in this paper is wrong* while looking at his screen and not at her, and the 6:47am timestamp on a note about a paper they had not yet discussed.
She did not have a word for all of that. She was not sure the word existed yet.
She opened her own notes from the morning and began to transfer them into the document, adding her thoughts on Hartley et al. beneath his, their two analyses building on each other in the margin of a shared page the way their arguments had built on the whiteboard in the conference room and the way their thinking had moved through the temporal variance code on Friday night.
It occurred to her, not for the first time and with less resistance than before, that this was what it felt like to work with someone whose mind moved in compatible directions. That she had been doing it all morning without noticing she was doing it.
She noticed now.
She filed the observation in the category she still had not named, and continued working, and did not think about Thursday more than was strictly necessary, which was more than she would have preferred.
Outside, Edinburgh was committing to rain now, properly, the kind that settled in for the day. She could hear it on the window behind her. She had been in this city for six weeks and had already stopped finding the rain remarkable, which was either adaptation or resignation and she had not determined which.
The shared document had forty-three entries now. She had counted without meaning to. Twenty-two from him, twenty-one from her, and the balance had shifted incrementally each day without either of them discussing it, the way some things shifted without requiring a conversation — gradually, then apparently all at once.
She saved the document. She closed the collaboration file. She opened her own thesis chapter and worked on it for the rest of the morning, in the Whitmore lab, which was exactly where she was supposed to be. This was fine. This was the correct arrangement of things. She told herself this with the conviction of someone who had not yet stopped believing it, which was, she noted, not the same as believing it without effort. The rain on the window continued. She worked. Thursday was four days away, which was a fact and not a countdown, and she was treating it as the former. She was good at treating facts as facts. She had always been good at this. She told herself so, and returned to her chapter, and the rain continued, and Thursday grew one hour closer with each hour that passed.
You've reached the end of this chapter