The geometry problem swims in front of me like something alive, triangle sitting there sideways on Lou's laptop screen while rain beats the cottage windows hard enough to rattle the old frames. My pencil scratches numbers that might as well be chicken scratch in some foreign tongue. Base times height divided by two—Lord knows I memorized that formula same way I memorized them romance novels I used to steal glimpses of back in Moonstone's barracks, hiding pages under my mattress like contraband. But this particular triangle's got measurements missing, angles that don't make sense to somebody who never got past fourth grade.
The coffee's gone cold in my cup, bitter as pokeweed when I sip it. My fingers shake holding the pencil, not from cold but from Hannah pressing against my skull from in
