The drive to the Conservatory took forty minutes when Kali wasn't paying attention to the drive, which was most of the time, because the road knew itself by now — every curve of it memorized in his hands the way the deposition binder had been memorized in Allen's mouth all morning, dates and permits and numbers recited without once reaching for a note. Kali had sat in that gallery for five hours and said almost nothing, and somehow it had been one of the more exhausting days

Allen woke at 4:46 AM the way he woke every morning, and for the first time in a month he did not run. He lay in the familiar dark of his own bedroom in Kingfall Heights, Kali's weight warm along his side — Kali had stayed over more nights than not since Jay and Maurice’s wedding, the Conservatory-to-penthouse rotation still unsettled, still being negotiated one night at a time — and listened to him breathe, and thought about depositions. Not about Kali. About depositions. Th

The numbers on Marcus Chen’s telemetry monitor did not know that three insurance carriers had spent forty-eight hours trying to classify his heart as an actuarial loss. Kali stood at the foot of the bed on the fourth floor of the Tafari-Yara Hybrid Recovery Wing, his tablet resting against his forearm, watching the green trace of Marcus’s sinus rhythm scroll across the glass. Regular. Strong. Sixty-eight beats a minute, without a flutter, without the terrifying pause that had