Lena's POV
I was at Damien's door at six fifty-eight.
Not seven. Six fifty-eight, because I had not slept well and I had been lying in the dark since five thinking about everything I wanted to say and at some point lying there stopped being useful and getting up became the only reasonable option.
I knocked.
"Come in," he said. Which meant he'd been there since before six fifty-eight, which meant probably since before six, which meant Damien Morrison and I shared the same relationship with sleep during difficult periods, which was to say, a poor one.
I pushed the door open.
The desk had been cleared.
Not tidied, cleared. The usual documents and screens were pushed to the edges and the center surface was covered with a spread of files, printed reports, and what looked like a timeline
