NORA
I find Damon in the east wing office a little after ten thirty.
He’s behind his desk with a stack of documents spread in front of him and reading glasses that are low on his nose, which would almost be amusing if he didn’t treat being seen wearing them like classified information.
He hears my knock.
The glasses come off immediately.
By the time he looks up, the expression is already there.
Neutral. Professional. Carefully blank.
I close the door behind me and sit across from him without waiting for permission.
His pen settles onto the desk.
For a second neither of us says anything.
“I’m not here to complain,” I tell him.
Something shifts behind his face at that.
Small enough most people would miss it.
Not relief exactly. More like recalculation.
“Alright,” he says.
“I w
