March arrived with the specific energy of a semester approaching its conclusion.
Not panic — momentum. The kind that builds when significant things are close enough to be real but not so close that there is no longer time to get them right.
The thesis deadline was April fifteenth.
Six weeks.
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I wrote every day.
Not always long sessions — sometimes forty minutes, sometimes two hours. But daily, without exception, the consistency that Holt had said at the beginning of the year was the only reliable path to finished work.
The thesis was at ninety-three pages of the formal document.
The final chapter — the garden, June fifteenth, Gloria's seeds — was written in the notebook but not yet transferred to the thesis. I had been saving it deliberately. The ending required a different qual
