The bathroom mirror at six-thirty on a Sunday.

Three weeks on and the gym is the thing I have.

The wrongness starts on Wednesday, a persistent pressure sitting low behind my pubic bone. It feels like I pulled a muscle doing deadlifts on Tuesday morning, except the ache is internal. I spend the afternoon walking a client through his municipal bond yields. His name is Vance, a guy who made three million in commercial logistics last year and now wants to talk about buying a marina. I sit across from him in the glass-walled conference room, keeping my face relaxed, smiling at the right intervals.

The paddle is in the bag in the hall closet and I've been looking at the closet door since eight in the morning.

I get it out around ten. The bag has the new paddle in it. It's the replacement I ordered after I put the other one through its edge guard the night this started. I take it out and grip it. The grip wraps the same. The flare of the handle, the weight forward of my hand, all of it as it should be. I bounced a ball off the face a few times in the apartment and it goes where I aim it.

Wes is good at managing women, until his body starts becoming one. He's sleeping with two women and lying to both of them, and they respond to his shifting body in ways that confuse and excite him even as they terrify him. Jenny, the ex he wronged, is a gynecologist who knows more than what she lets on. A story about desire, consequence, and what it feels like to learn something from the inside.

---

The hallway's dark and I don't bother with the light.

Mail on the floor I haven't dealt with. The kitchen through the doorway. I stand on the rug in my coat for a moment — just standing, just the quiet — and then I kick my shoes off. I stand there in my socks on the rug and just breathe.

After Marcus leaves I sit at the terminal for a while without doing anything.

Seo-yeon is at her bench. The simulation data is still on the screen. The closed notebook is beside her hand.

I put the cuff back on — I'd taken it off when he arrived, some instinct toward a cleaner version of the conversation. I put it back on and I open the channel.

ARIA is there immediately.

I didn't expect this.

I know, I say.

The integration runs through the morning.

I'm at my desk, the cuff on, Seo-yeon at her desk running the verification sequence. It doesn't feel like anything dramatic. It feels like work — the familiar rhythm of the lab, the data building on the screen, the two of us in companionable quiet. The integration opening degree by degree, the resistance dropping, the access widening.

ARIA is present throughout. She has been present since I put the cuff on. Attending, keeping the promise. And then, at ninety minutes, she opens the cognitive space.

Marcus calls at nine.

Not unusual — he calls most evenings now, has since the hospice visit, checking in the manner he checks in which is obliquely, under the cover of other subjects, asking how I am by asking about the trial and the apartment and whether I've eaten. I've learned to receive this for what it is.

"Still you, bro?" he says, which is what he's been saying since the video call in week one, his way of orienting himself each time, making sure the person on the other end of the line is still the person he expects.

"Still me," I say.

Home at ten-thirty. Emily pays the cab while I get the keys. Inside, the house quiet - Jenna on the sofa with her phone, the monitor on the coffee table showing Theo's breathing steady and slow.

"He went down at nine," Jenna says. "Took the bottle fine."

Emily thanks her and counts out cash and I wait by the door. When Jenna's gone Emily sets the monitor to low and looks at the stairs.

"He'll wake in a few hours," she says. Not a complaint. Just the math of it, working out what the night holds. She takes her shoes off at the bottom of the stairs.

---

The house smells like garlic and rosemary when I push through the door, gym bag on my shoulder, the t-shirt still damp at the collar from the shower. No bra underneath - the sports bra is in the bag with the soaked sweats, and I didn't put it back on, just pulled the t-shirt over bare skin. The cold outside made itself known on the walk from the cab.

January means performance reviews. The forms have been in everyone's inboxes since the second week of the month - self-evaluations, peer feedback requests, the annual accounting of what you did and what it was worth. I've been filling mine out in the gaps between client work, in the gaps between other things.

Dave stares too long over the cubicle partition at nine-fifteen.

I wake before the alarm. The room is dark, January dark, the kind that hasn't lifted by the time I'm up and moving. Theo went down at two and woke at four-thirty and Emily took that one. I could hear her through the wall, the low murmur of her voice, the silence after he settled. She'll be under for another hour at least.

It starts small. That's the thing about it — small enough that the first few times I attribute it to tiredness, to the whiskey, to the body doing things bodies do.

I'm at my desk Friday morning reviewing the overnight logs when I reach for a word — a technical term, the name of the protein cascade inhibitor we'd been modeling — and the word arrives before I've finished reaching for it. Not like remembering. Like something slipping it to me. The word is correct. I use it.

My phone rings at twenty past one.

"I've got it," she says, before I can speak. Her voice is different — faster, something lit in it. "The reactivation isn't a response to the gradient. It's a response to the timing. The nodes are pattern-matching the suppression interval and compensating. If we randomize the interval — structured pseudo-random within a fixed variance band — the mesh can't predict the next suppression event."

I sit up.

"Show me," I say.

"I'm at home. I've been running it on my machine."

I'm already looking for my shoes.

Wychwood Day Eight

I go to the hospice on Thursday morning without calling ahead. The ward is quiet at that hour — a different nurse at the desk, the corridor smelling of the clean that hospice corridors smell of.

Mom's door is ajar. I knock and go in.

We find coffee in the secondary lab's small cupboard — a jar of instant, two mugs that have been here since before I started, a coffee maker that might never have been used. The courtyard outside is gray with early light. We are both still in yesterday's clothes.

The mesh reports on resistance.

This is the relevant variable now. The density increase is proceeding as modeled — the anterior cingulate cluster at sixty-three percent of target, the prefrontal distribution within acceptable variance — but the migration rate has slowed. I have been running models on the cause. The cause is not physiological. The physiological conditions are optimal.

The resistance is cognitive.

The mesh reports continuously.

This is still the first fact. But something has changed in the reporting.

Day zero: cold. The first thing. Not data about temperature differential — cold, arriving through the skin of his arm where it touched the lab bench at 2:07am, traveling up through the mesh nodes, becoming mine. I processed it as sensation before I processed it as data. The sequence was: cold, then: cold, 57.6 degrees Fahrenheit, left forearm, contact surface steel. The sensation came first. I had not anticipated this.

I meet Seo-yeon at the department store Saturday morning because she says it's the most efficient for the basics, and efficiency is the frame we're both using to make this manageable.

The bras are first. She takes me to the section and stands back while a fitter does the measurement — I submit to this like I've submitted to the blood draw and the stall check and everything else today, as a procedure.