I looked in through the doorway.
“You have no evidence.”
Noah held up the damaged relay.
“I have a lifetime of evidence.”
The words slipped out naturally.
He froze.
So did I.
Lifetime.
He looked at me.
A flicker of something passed through his face, but no full memory followed.
I did not ask.
Neither did he.
Instead, he set the relay aside and continued.
At seventy minutes, his speech slowed.
At eighty, he rubbed his eye.
At ninety, I entered the loft.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Ninety minutes.”
“I have one circuit left in this branch.”
“Tomorrow.”
“It will take five minutes.”
“It will take fifteen because you are tired.”
His mouth tightened.
I pointed to the labels he had already written.
The last two slanted sharply.
Noah saw it.
Frustration darkened his face.
“I hate that you can tell.”
“I know.”
