Page 43 of Bleed

He studies my face, tipping his head. “Sarcasm.”

“Obviously.”

A flicker of amusement ignites behind his eyes, but then it’s gone, replaced by that same cool detachment.

I hold up the logbook, pointing to the mystery number. “Is this a four or a nine?” I ask.

He squints at it as if he’ll actually be able to tell from all the way across the room. “Nine.”

Well. Guess he can.

“Thanks,” I say, forcing my attention back to the monitor and punching the number on the keyboard.

The next hour passes agonizingly slowly and proves two things. First, science is significantly less exciting than television would lead me to believe. And second, Dr. Elliott Faulkner has somehow built an entire career around shit that would bore most people to tears.

I stare at the computer screen in front of me, resisting the urge to slam my forehead against the keyboard.

Rows, columns, numbers.

More rows, more columns.

Somewhere in the endless sea of data are blood samples, test results, collection dates, and scientific information apparently important enough to justify a Nobel prize. All obviously of value to him, but to me, wading through it feels like punishment.

“You’ve been staring at the same entry for three minutes.”

I startle at the deep rumble of Elliott’s voice, glancing up from the monitor. He’s now sorting samples into trays, watching me out of the corner of his eye.

I hadn’t even realized he was paying attention. Half the time, he looks completely absorbed in whatever he’s doing, while the other half, he somehow notices everything.

“That’s because it’s judging me,” I huff, folding my arms and glaring at the screen.

“The spreadsheet?”

“Yes.”

“It isn’t sentient.”

I turn toward him, narrowing my eyes. “You don’t know that.”

He slides another tube into place, his long fingers surprisingly precise despite their size. “I do.”

“That’s exactly what a sentient spreadsheet would want you to think.”

A faint crease appears between his brows, like he’s actually evaluating the possibility.

“See?” I laugh, pointing at him. “That’s your problem.”

“My problem?”

“Most people would’ve immediately recognized that as a joke.”

His gaze returns to the sample tray. “I recognized it.”

“You considered it,” I fire back.

“I considered whether you believed it.”

I stare at him for a beat, debating whether or not to take offense to that statement, then turn back to the computer with a sigh. Arguing with him is about as pointless as arguing with this damn spreadsheet.