Page 348 of End Game

Drake demonstrates one foundational tie on Mara's forearm, focusing more on what the rope should do than making us memorize choreography.

Then it's our turn.

My first attempt looks correct.

It is not.

Drake slides a finger beneath one section. “You lost your tension.”

I frown. “I thought it was even.”

“You thought wrong.”

Behind me, Cami makes a suspicious choking noise.

I don't look at her, but I start over.

Micah finishes before the rest of us.

Drake checks his work, then looks at him. “You've done this before?”

“No.”

“Textile artist?”

“No,” Micah corrects, “Tattoo artist.”

Drake pauses and looks at the rope on Carter's arm again.

“Ah.”

Carter looks down. “Good ah or nerve-damage ah?”

“Good.”

Micah's gaze tracks one of the rope lines, and he points. “If this moves, that one is going to pull tighter.”

Drake looks at him again. “Yes.”

Micah nods like that was obvious.

Drake gestures toward the rope. “He is seeing structure.”

Micah immediately looks uncomfortable with being singled out.

Drake doesn't appear to care. “Rope is line, tension, negative space, and three-dimensional geometry before it's erotic.”

Micah's whole attention changes because that language makes sense to him.

When we practice again, I watch Micah.

He doesn't memorize it faster, but he sees it differently.

By the time Drake tells us to stop, I've done the same basic exercise enough times to determine two things.

One: I dislike being mediocre at this.

Two: pretending I am better than I am would be considerably more dangerous than tolerating that feeling.