I decided the best way to deal with two deadlines I didn't want to face was to bury myself in a third thing entirely, which is how I ended up spending most of Wednesday night elbow-deep in track-and-field injury archives instead of doing anything useful about either.
"You didn't answer the email," Harlow said, not even looking up from her own laptop across the room.
"I'm working on the project." I said
"That's not what I asked." She said
"I heard what you asked."
"So?"
"So I'm working on the project," I said again, which wasn't technically a lie, even if it was doing a lot of work to avoid being the truth.
She let it go, mostly because she knew pushing wouldn't get her anywhere faster, and I went back to scrolling through a database of old regional sports broadcasts, the kind of ha
