A week after the coordinated attack, I finally started noticing Andrea again.
I'd been so consumed with data analysis that I'd barely registered her presence. She came and went for work, made dinner sometimes, said good morning in passing.
Normal stuff. Except it wasn't quite normal anymore.
I first noticed it when she came home from her shift one evening. I was at the kitchen table surrounded by printouts.
"Still working on this?" she asked, setting her bag down.
"Yeah. Trying to find patterns."
She looked at the papers. Her face was calm. Relaxed.
"You seem stressed," she said.
"A hundred and twenty-three people died. I'm trying to understand what happened."
"You're obsessing over it." She smiled slightly. "Sometimes you have to accept things are beyond anyone's control. There's
