Marcus calls at eight-fifteen — school run done, twenty minutes before he has to be anywhere.
"Wolves lost," he says, before I've finished saying hello.
"I saw."
"You didn't see. You checked the score at midnight and felt nothing."
"I felt something."
"You felt data. It's different." A car door, keys, the acoustics of his kitchen — I know it well enough to place it. "They're going to finish mid-table again. I've made peace with it. Have you made peace with it?"
"I've never not been at peace with it."
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